


By Other Roads

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-Typical Violence, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: What if... Marie Cessette didn't die, Porthos didn't become a musketeer, Treville was given a chance to help?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: as in canon, the court of miracles sucks; childhood violence; fighting; background characters die. Basically what you might see in an episode, but less non/dub-con and less dead women. 
> 
> WARNING 2: There is a possibility I haven't read this recently and ... I can't remember if I've covered everything. If you need a specific warning, or have a trigger, hmu on tumblr (general-du-vallon) and I'll check through for you :) 
> 
> I'll edit and post chapter two tomorrow 
> 
> A big thanks as usual to Rhesascoffee who is eternally encouraging.

_When Porthos is four he gets caught stealing. He escapes, but Marie Cessette keeps a closer eye, or tries to. He’s wayward, independent, and absolutely bloody-headed, determined to take care of her, bringing her food and cheap jewelry and coins and everything he can get his sticky fingers on in their tiny room with barely a roof where the rain gets it. She’s so sick, when he’s small, she can’t do much and has barely anything except love to give him, but he sleeps by her and clings to her and she protects him as far as she can. When he’s six he’s caught out of the Court of Miracles, not doing anything wrong per-se but he’s playing with one of the boys who works for a baker who knows a lot of the Red Guard and he ends up dragged a few streets toward their garrison before he manages to sink his teeth into a hand, get a sharp bony knee into a crotch, and make a run for it. Marie Cessette tries to tell him not to go wandering, not to steal, ‘not to do anything at all, Mama? I’m busy!’._

 

_She has her own jobs and her hands get into pockets when there’s nothing else. She squares it with herself that she steals so he doesn’t have to. She tries to get a better job, to bring in laundry. She does some stitching, but there’s no escape from the court, except in a coffin or dragged out to the Bastille. Porthos runs with Charon and Flea and works for the king of the Court and Marie Cessette can do nothing. Then he’s eleven and he comes home with an old pistol slung over his shoulder, a knife in his belt. A knife which has blood in it. And a week later she has to pull him out of a tavern brawl, where he’s being paid to fight a man twice his size. He tells her angrily that he was winning, that he had a lot of money coming when he did win. And then she sees him in the street, fists up, eye black, bleeding. She knows that this is it for him. Much more time here and he’ll have no escape, there’ll be no out. He talks to her at night, dreamy stories about joining the army, about getting enough money to buy her a house, but he’s eleven. He would join the army, she’s sure, if she wasn’t there. He can’t quite bring himself to leave her behind._

 

_And then, one day, she’s stood in the street and she recognises Him. She ducks her head but he looks right at her. For a moment she freezes, terrified, but he stares at her, makes a comment, roots in his pockets for change then shrugs and moves on with an easy swagger. He’s dressed rich but he comes with whispers, rumours; he got the king killed. The country’s in uproar with Henry dead, and here is the man who was protecting him. Marie Cessette knows him by quite other crimes, but she is happy to whisper and scoff and sneer over these new ones. He gets evicted from the Court of Miracles quickly and quietly, lucky he isn’t dead, but left alive because regicide is a badge of honour. Marie Cessette hears him, one day in a tavern, before he leaves, and it’s the only option. She knows what she has to do. She finishes cleaning glasses and takes the handful of coins she owed before heading back into the court. She finds Porthos fighting, she usually does these days. He’s fighting with Charon, which is less usual, but she doesn’t care. She grabs him and pulls him out, yelling at him as she drags him by the ear to their room to gather their meger thing. She shouts as she watches him pull bricks out of the wall and boards up, uncovering stashes of money, weapons, stolen items._

 

_He doesn’t do anything except glare as she holds his elbow and tows him out of the Court of Miracles, ignoring the looks. He’s angry and she’s angry with him and his fighting and he’s going to get himself killed and she has had enough. She marches them through the winding streets and alleys and into wider streets and it rains on them and she marches on, under the big imposing arch of the Musketeers garrison. There are men in uniform everywhere and she holds tight to Porthos because he’s trying to run, his heart’s picked up. Everyone stares at her. She stops._

 

_“Mama,” Porthos whispers. He sounds afraid._

 

_“Can I help you, Madam?” one of the men asks. He’s big, broad-shouldered, a sword at his belt and other weapons, old. He looks threatening. She loses her voice a moment, her courage. “I’m Serge. Are you here to see a husband? Has someone got secretly married?”_

 

_There’s a laugh that goes around and men nudge each other and mutter teasing comments. About each other, she realises. This isn’t directed at her and there’s no malice in it. Serge grins at Porthos and it softens to a smile when directed at her._

 

_“It wasn’t me,” Porthos blurts, all of a sudden._

 

_“Sure it wasn’t,” Serge says, outright laughing now. “Don’t worry, I’ve made a vow to never play cards at the Wren again, and definitely not against you. I got what I deserved. You won… fair and square.”_

 

_The slight pause, the hesitation, is not noticable. Marie Cessette notices it because she can feel Porthos’s shame. No one can see it, but she knows it. She’s known it for years, has felt it radiating from him, that he can’t do the right thing for her, that he can’t fix the world. She holds his arm tight and raises her chin to Serge, to this man who might dare hurt her child. Serge still looks quite gentle, though, and his eyes are bright with amusement, not anger. Porthos definitely cheated him, Porthos always cheats at cards. But he’s not angry about that._

 

_“I am here to see Sargent Treville,” she says, finally finding her words again. “We’re respectable citizens, your implications are not appreciated.”_

 

_Serge laughs again and gestures, standing aside. Someone is rising from a bench, jacket open, plucking a gun off the table as he unbends and comes over. He’s not tall but he’s imposing. Marie Cessette scrutinises him. He’s older and looks more ragged, more care-worn. There’s little of the bright scrap who cried when he came back to the spot he’d left her and found them gone. Knelt in the muck and wept. Marie Cessette had watched him. She didn’t dare trust, then, hadn’t known what to do, had been as pig-headed as her boy. Determined to be independent, to take care of him, to do it her way. Treville looks at her, curious, guarded. She looks back, tugs Porthos into his sight-line. Porthos looks like his father. She noted that long ago. Especially when he’s trying to be proud and strong and in command of a situation. Treville’s eyes widen and she feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the fear in his look._

 

_“We’re here for what’s owed,” Marie Cessette says._

 

_“Yes, of course,” Treville says. “I’ll… anything, anything at all. I can help. I can do things.”_

 

_He’s so eager, tripping over his words and his feet, trying to take her hand. She steps out of his range and he turns to Porthos so Marie Cessette draws Porthos behind her, where he grumbles but stays put. Unwilling, staying as he’s told but only for the moment. She’s afraid that if she lets go of him for a second he’ll be challenging these soldiers to a fight. He’s still afraid, right now, however. He doesn’t like the soldiers._

 

_“All I want is a position. Somewhere they’ll let Porthos learn,” Marie Cessette says._

 

_“Porthos,” Treville says. “He’s… that’s his name? Is he…”_

 

_“Yes,” Marie Cessette says, not wanting Porthos to hear that he is the Marquis de Belgard’s son here, now, like this. Just for now. He is going to be teeming with questions soon, not letting her rest until he has all the answers his heart desires. Stubborn boy. “I can sew, I can clean, I can do kitchen work.”_

 

_“I’ll find you something,” Treville says._

 

_“Today,” Marie Cessette demands. Then she relents. “A place to stay, at least.”_

 

_“It’s yours,” Treville says. “Money, I have… no. I’ll get some, I get paid, I can get an advance. I’ll get you a room for the week, and find you something. I can help. I can help?”_

 

_“Yes,” Marie Cessette says. “You may help us.”_

_They sit with Serge for the afternoon, Marie Cessette watching carefully as her stupid son teaches this musketeer all the ways he cheated. Serge doesn’t seem to mind a bit, delighted at how quick and light Porthos’s touch is, practising slipping cards up his own sleeve. In return Porthos demands a look at his sword and pistol, critiquing Serge for not keeping the latter properly cleaned and oiled. Serge defends himself that it was recently used and Porthos is eager for stories of that, and when he hears that Serge likes to cook he’s eager over that, too, and Marie Cessette listens,surprised, as Porthos admits to liking to cook himself. She remembers him playing with the bakers’ boys but he hasn’t said much about that since. She’d been angry, had told him to never go back there. Later, when they’re in two well-kept rooms that Treville has found and secured for them, she asks him._

_“I didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t want you to worry,” Porthos says. “They let me do deliveries, sometimes, and I hang around the kitchen.”_

 

_“Maybe you can be a cook,” Marie Cessette says. “Instead of a soldier like you hoped.”_

 

_“I will be both, like the musketeer Serge,” Porthos says, awe in his voice that Marie Cessette can’t quite bear to quench._

 

_She knows she can never help him fulfill his newly kindled wish to be a musketeer, but when Treville finds her a position in the Larroque household she makes friends with the kitchen staff, and when the countess takes over running the household at barely eighteen, Marie Cessette goes to her and begs. She needn’t: Ninon Larroque is as kind as her mother was cold, as eager to help her staff as her mother was eager to ignore their needs, delighted by anyone willing to learn. And Porthos is willing to learn, eager to, hungry for it. He goes to classes with Ninon, learning his lessons, and she lets him work in the kitchen and learn from the cook. Marie Cessette never goes back to Treville, never writes to him, avoids him assiduously, but she cannot help but think kindly of him for finding them this. For Porthos’s sake, she lets her anger at him go and thanks him, silently, to herself._

 

 

 

 

 

**~ 1 ~**

 

Athos watches for a few minutes, when they arrive at the fight. It’s a big, sprawling street-brawl, red guards against gentlemen. They seem to be gentle, at least - they wear court clothes and their accents are high class, when they call to each other. They’re drunk, seeking amusement. He and his men watch until one of the men, tall and broad, the centre of the fight, laughing uproariously at something, skewers one of the guards. Athos distinctly hears him say ‘oops’, and it’s a short knife, a shoulder wound. Still, this is what he’s been sent here for, so Athos whistles to his men and they wade in, calling for calm, pulling the fighters apart. He uses the butt of his pistol to knock one of them out but when he reaches the central figure he’s waiting, grinning, nonchalant, leaning on the wall.

 

“Hello,” the man says.

 

“Hands,” Athos says.

 

The man holds out his wrists obediently, making a lewd comment that elicits sniggers from the men around him. The red guard aren’t grateful, they curse at Athos and one even spits. The man in Athos’s grasps twists away, brings his bound hands up, and breaks the red guard’s nose.

 

“Ingratitude makes me angry,” he says, holding his hands back out to Athos as if in apology.

 

Athos shrugs and prods him into line with his fellows, marching them back to the garrison, leaving the red guard to mop their dregs up themselves. Athos isn’t sure why they’ve been sent here, except that Treville had been acerbic and bad-tempered. Probably something to do with these boys (barely men, they look very young) being from good families. They line them up in the garrison and make them sit, awaiting instruction. Athos stands on guard until Treville calls him from the balcony, upstairs by his office.

 

“Bring that one,” Treville says, pointing to the man who’d broken a nose. Athos isn’t surprised. The man gets up and saunters across the yard ahead of Athos, springing up the stairs to stand right in Treville’s face. “In the office.”

 

Athos turns away again, but Treville calls him up too. He gets a scowl as he follows Treville in, another scowl from the man waiting there. He’s got his legs shoulder width apart, chin up, looking belligerent.

 

“Sargent Treville,” he barks. “A pleasure.”

 

“Shut up, Porthos. Are you keeping the ropes out of politeness?” Treville asks, irritable in his turn, taking a seat behind the desk.

 

Porthos shrugs and drops his wrists, Athos’s ropes falling away. Athos gathers it up and frowns at it.

 

“Don’t worry, not your fault,” Porthos says, watching Athos. “It’s a trick of mine. Does it help to know that your knots have taken me longest in years to get out of?”

 

“It helps,” Athos admits, tucking the rope away. “It helps a little.”

 

“And what if I told you I had to break the rope, instead of getting out sneakily like I usually do?” Porthos says.

 

“Definitely helps,” Athos says.

 

“Shut up,” Treville says. “Porthos, what did you want to get dragged in for? Do you have anything for me? I pay you a lot for very little return at the moment.”

 

“I give you plenty,” Porthos snaps. “I only take what’s due to me, sargent Treville.”

 

“It’s captain, actually,” Athos says.

 

“He knows,” Treville says, wearilly. “Yes, Porthos? Anything?”

 

“I get paid first,” Porthos says.

 

“I will give it to your mother,” Treville says.

 

“She doesn’t know I talk to you,” Porthos says. “She doesn’t like you, sir.”

 

“I’ll address it from you, the way I always do,” Treville says. “What do you tell her, anyway?”

 

“Won it playing cards,” Porthos says.

 

Treville nods, pulling an envelope out of a drawer and passing it over to Porthos, who makes a great show of counting it. Athos decides he quite likes Porthos. Anyone who can make Treville this level of weary and annoyed is definitely worth watching, and Treville seems to like Porthos so it’s nothing bad. Athos settles in to enjoy the show. Porthos catches his slight relaxation and tips him a wink that has Treville cursing and telling them to shut up again. Porthos counts the money three times before examining the envelope and then he closes it himself, reaches across Treville’s desk and takes his seal. Athos watches Porthos’s hands as he melts the wax and stamps it, then turns the envelope over and over before giving it back to Treville.

 

“I know,” Treville says. “You’ll know if I skimp you, you’ll check it again the other end, if I add anything so that Marie catches on you even so much as look at me as I pass in the street you’ll come and cut out my heart.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says with a shrug.

 

“What was that fight about, anyway?” Treville says, exasperated again. “Why do you always have to make the maximum amount of trouble?”

 

“Wasn’t even me,” Porthos says. “Them red guard are fucking arseholes, sargent Treville.”

 

Athos hides his smile. The red guard really are fucking arseholes. Treville glares harder.

 

“How on earth did _they_ start a fight that _you_ went out looking for? And why in hell did you have to drag Pierre Ballaire into it? Do you have any idea how much money his father has? And why do you have to fight _these_ red guards? That was Captain Gaudet, he’s a favourite of Richelieu.”

 

“He’s not very good,” Porthos says. “He spat in your musketeer’s face, by the way. Very rude.”

 

“Shut up, Porthos,” Treville says.

 

“I broke his nose,” Porthos says. “I stabbed Dujon, he deserved it. Accused me of cheating at cards. Me! My honour was at stake, sargeant.”

 

“Oh for fucks sake get out,” Treville says. “Out!”

 

“Ok,” Porthos says, turning, then he stops, facing Athos. He waits, hesitating. “I suppose that means you don’t wanna know what happened to Cornet, eh? Or that your precious letters…”

 

Porthos pauses to pull out a packet of letters that he twirls. Treville swears colourfully, up out of his chair and coming for Porthos. The letters vanish again.

 

“Porthos,” Treville says, low and dangerous and between his teeth.

 

“Or that this one,” Porthos says, pointing at Athos, “is soon gonna be in a world of trouble. Your precious Gaudet is setting you up, sargeant.”

 

“It’s captain,” Treville says. “Talk. I’ll get the whiskey.”

 

Athos stands quietly, watching, wondering what he’s in for. Why is he in trouble and not the others? Specifically him, he’s sure that’s what Porthos meant. Why is he here? He knows that Treville has his spies, they all know, they all have people who keep their eyes open for things, people who hear things. Porthos seems to be that, but Treville doesn’t usually have them in the office for this, or let his men listen in. Athos keeps quiet while Treville pours out two cups of whiskey, noticing that while Porthos plays with the glass he doesn’t drink anything.

 

“Cornet,” Treville says.

 

“Dead,” Porthos says. “All of them.”

 

“And you have the letters,” Treville says.

 

“Gaudet doesn’t know his men and doesn’t keep count. Dujon recognised me, tonight,” Porthos says. “Started a fight about it. Something about cheating to get more than is my right.”

 

“Fair enough. Letters?” Treville says.

 

“Should’ve given them to me,” Porthos says. “I wouldn’t have been killed. Cornet was a better man than you are, Sargeant, now he’s dead.”

 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply and evenly for a bit. Porthos turns to wink at Athos again, grinning. Athos isn’t amused this time. He liked Cornet. Porthos sighs and turns back.

 

“I couldn’t save him, captain,” Porthos says, lower and softer. “I was there late, I barely know their plans. I knew to show up, but no one told me enough. I got the letters, you can have them back but I’d suggest you let me sell them to Richelieu. I’ll swap you these, which are treasonous by the way, for something a little softer.”

 

“Done,” Treville says. “That’s a good idea. Why is Athos in trouble?”

 

“Gaudet’s started going about giving his name as Athos of the king’s Musketeers before bringing people to a bloody end,” Porthos says. “Guts them. Like fish. Really likes doing it too. Dunno why, I doubt it’s off his own back, I guess Richelieu’s wanting to smear your musketeers. Usually seems to be the way, you two should kiss and make up.”

 

“Cornet’s dead?” Treville asks.

 

“Yeah, sorry sir,” Porthos says. He takes a sip of the whiskey. “Him and all his men. Gaudet took their uniforms, any money. Couldn’t find the letters, is probably still mad about that. I suppose we want Gaudet to go through with this?”

 

“I haven’t got anything to arrest him on, you can hardly testify,” Treville says.

 

“Yeah, and whose fault is it I have a reputation for cheating and drinking?” Porthos asks, belligerent again.

 

“I meant that you can’t be known as my spy, seeing as you also spy for Richelieu,” Treville says. “He’d not be happy if you-”

 

“Bloody sargeant Treville. My mother’d come and give you a right talking to if she knew any of this, you know that?” Porthos says, cutting Treville off. They seem to have had this discussion before.

 

“I know that,” Treville says. “What do you want-”

 

“Pay me,” Porthos says. “That’s all I want from you, your money. Athos of the king’s Musketeers, where’s your rope?”

 

Athos hands it over and watches as Porthos expertly twists it around his wrists, holding his hands out for Athos to do a knot where the rope’s been cut. Treville scribbles out some letters, Porthos waiting in angry silence, hands tied, until he’s done. Athos watches as Treville peels off the king’s seals from the letters and reattaches it to the new ones, wondering where and when Treville learnt that bit of criminality. Athos isn’t sure anymore that he likes Porthos, he doesn’t know what Treville has done to deserve that kind of anger and derision. To Athos he’s been a good captain, kind and patient, and a good friend. Athos tugs Porthos’s wrists to test the rope.

 

“Sir,” Athos says, when Treville gives Porthos the new letters.

 

“You need to know about this,” Treville says. “Porthos is useful, but I can’t always be here, so you’re now his contact.”

 

Porthos laughs, bending at the waist with mirth, but he doesn’t explain why. Athos is a little annoyed at being given this duty, Porthos seems a lot of trouble. Athos gives Porthos a little shove toward the door and Porthos goes, still chuckling, bouncing down the stairs and onto the courtyard. There are people coming and going, a shift changing somewhere, and Porthos beams at one of the passing men.

 

“Aramis!” Porthos cries, bounding up to him and kissing him, hands tied but still managing quite well despite that.

 

“Hello, Porthos,” Aramis says, when Porthos pulls away. “What are you doing here? Why are you tied up? Athos, why are you tying up my friends?”

 

Athos doesn’t bother to answer, pushing Porthos toward the line of his friends, who are singing something lewd about musketeers. Boisterously. Porthos holds steady, refusing to budge, and kisses Aramis again. Aramis doesn’t protest, cupping Porthos’s face and laughing into the kiss. Athos waits as Porthos’s friends call and whistle and jeer. Aramis eventually lets Porthos go.

 

“Talk to Treville for me?” Porthos says. “Get me out of this? It was just a little fight and it was the red guard, doing you guys a favour really.”

 

“Haven’t you heard?” Aramis says. “You’re being taken before the cardinal. Don’t worry though, mon chéri, I will pay your bail.”

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Not with - Aramis!”

 

But Aramis is gone, with a skip, running back out into the dark with a wave. Athos gives Porthos a shove toward the line again and this time Porthos goes.

 

“He’s a bloody idiot,” Porthos mutters. “Make it good, sir musketeer - shove me properly.”

 

Athos does and Porthos goes sprawling, laughing cheerfully as his fellows welcome him back and make jokes about his kissing men, jokes about beards, jokes about Athos. Athos bears it, and he bears it when the message comes that he is to escort the men to the louvre. He bears it when they’re all brought back out, more subdued, and Porthos tells him they’re to be sent to the Bastille until the morning, when they can go if they pay what’s owed. Reparations for injuries, money for breakages, whatever Richelieu can come up with. Athos listens to Porthos singing something drunk and maudlin as they ride to the Bastille.

 

“Did you sell the letters?” Athos whispers, when there’s enough noise to cover. Porthos nods, starts up another sad song about funerals.

 

Finally Athos can pass his new charge into the hands of the jailers and is free to head home to bed. It’s almost generous - he has a whole four hours before he’s back on duty in the morning. That’s almost a night’s sleep.

 

**

 

In fact, he gets five hours because he oversleeps. When he makes it to report to duty everyone else has already been assigned and is on their way. Treville is unimpressed with Athos’s lateness but doesn’t mind too much. Aramis is sprawled looking smug, which is explained when Treville says Athos is to go the Bastille and escort the young Pierre Ballaire back to his father’s house; presumably Porthos is out, too, paid for by Aramis. Athos heads out, saddling Jeudi and riding through Paris. He likes riding in the morning and he keeps a bottle of wine in his saddle so that’s as good as breakfast - it’s fruit. Athos is in quite a good mood when he makes it to the Bastille and he only has to wait half an hour while all the men he’s here to fetch are located and freed. It’s only Pierre Baillaire he has a duty to, but Porthos tags along, an arm around the young gentleman’s shoulders, sharing a bottle back and forth. They’re quite drunk when they leave Pierre. Athos expects Porthos to go into the house but he doesn’t, he just delivers Pierre into the arms of a stern looking servant and weaves away, singing, still in possession of the bottle. Athos turns away.

 

“Oi,” Porthos calls. Athos pauses. “You’re coming with me, sir musketeer.”

 

“I am?” Athos says.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, sounding happy. “We’re gonna find some breakfast.”

 

Athos hesitates. Breakfast sounds good. He should probably go back to the garrison, he’s on duty today. On the other hand, Treville said Porthos was Athos’s duty, last night, and this morning he didn’t explicitly say to come straight back. As well, maybe this is something Porthos is doing to give over some more information. He’s a spy afterall. Surely tricking someone into breakfast is part of being a spy. Athos goes with him, listening as Porthos sings badly. They get to a richer street and then a richer, and the singing dies down. Porthos’s steps stop weaving and he straightens up.

 

“You’re not drunk,” Athos says.

 

“Nope,” Porthos says. “Didn’t sleep great, the Bastille isn’t very comfortable. You know, Richelieu pays me for information, too? You’d think he’d do more to keep his spies out of the Bastille. Fucker.”

Porthos is silent for a bit, walking easily as if he knows where he is. He must do, Athos realises as they cut through between two houses with land around them, though a gate and across the bottom of a garden to stables. Porthos takes Jeudi’s reins and sees to her, whistling while he works, giving her a box and some hay and rubbing her down, running a curry comb over her and throwing a blanket across her back before coming back out.

 

“Thank you,” Athos says.

 

“Sure,” Porthos says. “I like the horses. Come on, I promised you breakfast.”

 

Athos follows him up through some more gardens and in through a small side-door, slipping down a servants’ hall and coming out into a bustling kitchen. Someone calls to Porthos about being late and Porthos calls something rude back, ducking through into a set of rooms. They’re met by a woman, who insults Porthos on his time-keeping and gives him fresh clothes. Porthos strips off, entirely unselfconscious, and the woman brings him water and a bar of soap.

 

“You smell like the stables,” she says. “Why are you out all night?”

 

“Shush Mama, you know I’ve got business,” Porthos says. “This is Athos, he’s a musketeer. Quite respectable, see?”

 

“Soldier,” the woman says, scoffing.

 

“Noble, by the looks of his sword,” Porthos says. Athos shifts, uncomfortable.

 

“It’s a family heirloom,” Athos mutters, hand resting automatically on it at his belt.

 

“See?” Porthos says. “This is my mother, Marie Cessette. She doesn’t think much of soldiers, I threatened to become one all through growing up.”

 

“You did become one,” Marie Cessette says. She rellents a little and smiles at Athos. “At least you’re bringing him home and not taking him out, I suppose. Did you play cards with him?”

 

“No,” Athos says.

 

“Good. Don’t,” Marie Cessette says. “Porthos, come on, you’re late. The countess has called for breakfast already.”

 

“I know,” Porthos says, getting dressed quickly, tying a bandana around his hair. “I promise you I am not being frivolous.”

 

“Winning money by gambling is frivolous, even if you do intend to do noble things with it. I am also late, I’m going,” Marie Cessette says. “The things I do for you, Porthos.”

 

“You do everything for me, and I love you for it,” Porthos says, bending so his mother can kiss his cheek. “Come on, Athos, gotta get the lords and ladies their food then we can have ours.”

 

Athos follows him back into the kitchen and they’re subjected to another round of friendly insults and questions about women. Porthos doesn’t, here, respond with the lewd comments Athos had heard from his last night, and he makes no mention of Aramis or gambling or fighting. He just takes the teasing and gets started. Athos isn’t sure what he expected, but Porthos gets started _cooking._ Athos watches, amazed, as someone hands Porthos a bowl of dough and Porthos expertly folds it into a series of neat croissants, sliding each onto a tray, complimenting the woman who passed him the dough as he goes, already turning to someone else to check bread that’s being drawn from the oven, moving over to a younger boy who’s cutting up fruit and passing out compliments and praise as he moves through the kitchen preparing things for what looks to be a very good breakfast. Servants come and go to take the food away as it’s made ready. Athos finds a corner to sit in and watches Porthos.

 

“You’re a cook,” Athos says, when Porthos comes and pauses by him, giving him a hot croissant and an apple.

 

“I’m a cook,” Porthos agrees with a pleased grin. Pleased, Athos thinks, both by Athos’s surprise and because he’s proud to be a cook. “To the countess Ninon Larroque.”

 

“Impressive,” Athos obligingly says. Porthos snorts and goes back to work, insulting someone for nearly letting some pastries burn.

 

Athos sits for half an hour, then the kitchen quiets. Porthos and two women start making bread while the younger servants clear up around them, setting things up for when the dough is ready. Porthos passes it over and turns to the hot stove again, cooking meat and potatoes. The kitchen boy comes to take things and then the bread is being covered to rise, warm by the oven, Porthos is untying his hair, and the kitchen stills around them as the servants finish cleaning. Porthos sticks his fingers in his mouth and gives a short, sharp whistle, and people start coming through from the rest of the house, streaming past.

 

“Breakfast,” Porthos says, coming over to Athos again. “Ours, this time.”

 

Athos gets up and follows him through to a small room where there’s a table set up, people sitting around already tucking into the food that’s laid out on platters. It’s simpler than what Athos saw going upstairs but still looks good and he takes the chair Porthos offers and accepts the bread and meat and potatoes, the fruit and the wine that’s poured. Marie Cessette appears again and sits the other side of Porthos, also helping herself. It’s good food and good company and Athos doesn’t regret at all the volume that Treville gets to in his ire at Athos being late, so very late, back to the garrison.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: drunken Athos (for rest of chapters gosh he is drunk a lot); canon typical violence

**~2~**

 

Porthos leans on the wall, watching the musketeers coming off duty. He waits here for Aramis, sometimes, he’s used to this. No one recognises him, he knows how to keep invisible and change his look. He sees Athos passing but doesn’t stop him - Athos looks drunk. Porthos has seen him a couple of times since he was arrested, each time Athos has been drunk, it seems to be a theme. Treville wasn’t kidding about having Athos take over. Porthos misses riling Treville up. Riling Athos up is fun too, though. Athos is beautiful when he flushes. 

 

“Porthos?” Aramis says, coming over, sauntering. 

 

“You’re bloody stupid,” Porthos says, getting that out there. “And I’ve been here every day for a week, where you been?”

 

“Busy,” Aramis says, smirking. 

 

“Bloody stupid,” Porthos repeats. He knows what Aramis has been busy with, or rather  _ who  _ Aramis has been busy with. 

 

“You’re one to talk,” Aramis says, laughing. “You’re always getting into trouble, mon ami.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. Aramis doesn’t know that the trouble is for Treville, for work. And, to be fair, Porthos enjoys the trouble. He’d probably do it even if he weren’t being paid for it. “Thanks for the money.”

 

“If it were mine I’d ask for something in return, as it is I’ll just accept your gratitude,” Aramis says, lingering over the last word and turning it into something lascivious. 

 

“You and your innuendo,” Porthos mutters.

 

“Any time,” Aramis says. “Anywhere.”

 

“Ride out of the city with me?” Porthos requests. 

 

“Alright,” Aramis says, falling easily into step as Porthos sets off to a livery to find a horse. “Come to the garrison, someone’ll have a horse you can borrow.”

 

“No, I’m not welcome there at the moment,” Porthos says, pretending a grimace. He hates borrowing horses from the musketeers, and his mother prefers him to stay away from the Musketeers’ garrison. He knows what Treville did, he knows why she prefers him far away from it all. “We need something sweet to eat, I need cheering up.”

 

“Getting gloomy in your old age,” Aramis says, nodding sagely before laughing again. 

 

He’s a beautiful man, and quite charming with it. Porthos met him a while ago, on duty for Treville and pretending everything under the sun. Aramis had been pleased by Porthos’s attention, happy in his company, and they’re friends now. As much as they can be, with Porthos telling lies left right and centre. Aramis sleeps with his friends, he told Porthos that early - he likes having sex with people he loves. Porthos is slow in forgiving Treville for all he’s done, despite the good amongst the bad, because it’s for Treville that Porthos lies to Aramis. 

 

“You are gloomy, today,” Aramis says, as they ride out on horses rented away from the garrison. Porthos shrugs and sighs heavily. “Don’t worry about me.”

 

“Who says I am? Maybe I’m worried about Adele,” Porthos says. 

 

“Shush,” Aramis chastises, looking around. 

 

Porthos huffs and rides ahead, which Aramis hates so he tries to catch up and then they’re racing, dashing through the streets of Paris at stupid speeds, scattering people as they fly. Porthos laughs, cheered by this chaos, until Aramis streaks past him. Porthos roars with frustration and kicks his horse into a wild gallop that takes him out of the gates and across the fields to their favourite tree. Aramis gives chase and, the more accomplished horseman, manages to catch up again, but Porthos wins. It’s marvelous. He throws himself down into the grass in the shade and pulls his hat over his eyes. Aramis flops down beside him, laughing softly. They lie for a while, getting their breath, fingers knit together.

 

“I don’t like Pierre Ballaire, or any of that lot,” Aramis says, eventually, quietly and seriously. “These men are dangerous.”

 

“I can look after myself,” Porthos grumbles. “And anyway, I’m not the one who’s sleeping with the cardinal’s mistress and getting his money out of her to pay bail. You know you just paid the cardinal with his own money? You think he isn’t gonna notice that?”

 

“How will he know?” Aramis says, uncaring, grinning about it. 

 

“Like he doesn’t make a mark on every bit of his ridiculous amount of money,” Porthos says. “He’s that kind of wanker.”

 

“It’s fine,” Aramis says. “He’ll not know the difference and besides, Adele buys things. That money is just money, now. Some of it was even her own.”

 

“You paid the cardinal, the most powerful man in France save the royal family, with his own money,” Porthos says. “You’re insane.”

 

“It’s marvellous, isn’t it?” Aramis says, happy. “Adele is gorgeous.”

 

“Bloody well insane,” Porthos says, rolling over and trying to smother Aramis, who just laughs and wraps his arms around Porthos, dragging him into a kiss that lasts a long time. “I’m not having sex in a field.”

 

“I wasn’t offering,” Aramis murmurs, lips close. “I’m just kissing you.”

 

“I like it,” Porthos says. 

 

Aramis kisses him again. They sprawl together for the whole heady afternoon, kissing, holding hands. Porthos plays with Aramis’s hair and tells him things that aren’t true, and Aramis laughs at his tall stories. Porthos has most of the day off but the countess has company this evening for dinner and Porthos needs to be back in the kitchen for that, so they have to head back to Paris eventually. They ride slow, this time, legs brushing they’re that close, silent for the most part. 

 

“Keep your secrets if you must,” Aramis says. “It makes you very attractive. All mysterious and enigmatic.”

 

“I’d have none if that were possible,” Porthos says, gravely. 

 

“That makes it so much more delicious,” Aramis says. “Escort me back to the garrison?”

 

Porthos agrees to, so they return their horses and walk together, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. They’re peaceful, Paris is quiet, Porthos feels content and relaxed. They wander under the arch and Porthos sees Athos sat in the courtyard and smiles, raising a hand in greeting. Aramis follows Porthos over and stands awkwardly while Athos kisses Porthos’s cheek. He’s drunk. 

 

“Where are you headed?” Athos asks. 

 

“Home,” Porthos says. “I’ve got work, I’m just returning Aramis.”

 

“Ah yes,” Athos says, as if just now noticing Aramis. Porthos isn’t sure why they don’t get on but there doesn’t seem to be anything too serious in it. “The captain is away.”

 

“Good,” Porthos says. Athos rolls his eyes. “I’m out, tonight, if you felt like a bit of gambling.”

 

“I spoke to Serge,” Athos says, narrowing his eyes at Porthos. “He mentioned a few things. And your mother warned me away from cards.”

 

“You’ve met his mother? He’s met your mother?” Aramis says, turning to one and then the other of them. 

 

That particular drama is headed off, however, by Treville arriving back. Porthos turns to face him, straightening out his shoulders and glaring. Treville glares back. 

 

“Athos,” Treville says. There are men behind him. Porthos frowns. 

 

“Yes sir,” Athos says, coming around Porthos. 

 

“Did you find Cornet?” Treville asks. Porthos narrows his eyes. They know where Cornet is, him and his men are in shallow graves off the road to Chartres. 

 

“No,” Athos says. “If we take more men, search the road.”

 

“For now it doesn’t matter. These men are here to arrest you,” Treville says. “For charges of robbery and murder. I’m sorry. I promised you’d go quietly.”

 

Porthos feels anger building in him as Athos calmly goes with the palace guard, not looking back. Treville walks by without a glance so Porthos follows him, up the stairs the thud thud thud of his heart drowning everything out, into the office. 

 

“How can you?” Porthos shouts, catching up to Treville and pulling him around. He quiets his voice. "You know it wasn’t him.”

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Treville snaps, shaking him off. 

 

“You know it’s Gaudet using his name, why can’t you just stop it? You know the truth!” Porthos says, trying not to shout again. 

 

“Because despite what the cardinal says about me I’m not just a stupid soldier,” Treville hisses back, angry in his turn. “I know perfectly well how to play his little games and this is how.”

 

“Sacrificing your men?” Porthos says. “I dunno why I ever thought you were any different to him, you know.”

 

“Are we back on that?” Treville says. “Back again?”

 

“Yeah, maybe we are,” Porthos says, stepping away. “You know what? I quit. Get your information some other way. I’m through with this charade, I should’ve never let you use me!”

 

“Use you? You started this, Porthos. I would’ve given you a promotion and made you a musketeer but you were adamant. You wanted nothing from me. You’re the one who quit the army, made friends with Pierre Ballaire, you came to me,” Treville says. Porthos deflates. It’s true, or true enough. “Athos is going to be sentenced to death. Shall we find a way to prove him innocent that doesn’t involve- Aramis is standing in the doorway listening.”

 

“Fuck,” Porthos says. “Fuck!” 

 

He turns on his heel and pushes past Aramis, clattering down the steps and running for the arch, wanting to get out, to get away. Aramis calls his name and gives chase but Porthos is fast and he knows Paris. He’s run from soldiers all his life. He runs until his lungs are burning from it and then he stops, leaning on the wall, getting his breath. He stops to think, looking around to see where he is. It’s a part of Paris he knows. They used to meet here, he and Flea, a long, long time ago. Back when she still came out of the court. He has an idea.

 

He takes his time, walking the streets he knows so well, winding himself deep into Paris. He went back a few times, since he and Flea stopped meeting, but she hadn’t appeared. He’s written letters he knows Charon can’t read. Flea can. She taught herself, somehow, in the filth and desperation of it all she taught herself to read. She can’t write so he’s never heard anything back but he hopes, now, that this is going to work. He passes the Wren, where he still comes sometimes when he thinks he needs to remember. And then he’s back, back in the Court of Miracles, the stones under his feet dirtier, the faces around him more hostile. He curses and takes a few more steps, waiting. He knows little of who rules here, anymore, doesn’t know if this is the most stupid thing he’s ever done. There’s a long list, but this is pretty stupid. He takes another step. Ah, there it is, the familiar thud thud thud of sticks banged. He’s been on the other side of this many times, he knows what it’s threatening, knows the violence of it. He walks on. There’s a spark of recognition in someone, and then someone’s running off. He keeps walking. There’s a flurry of movement and he doesn’t fight it as someone clobbers him and gags him, pulling a sack over his head, and then there’s only darkness. 

 

**

 

It’s night, when he wakes. He can tell. He might’ve left the Court of Miracles but he knows it, he grew up here, you don’t forget. He can tell that he’s in the centre of it all, the ‘palace’. He prays that he wasn’t wrong, that he still has friends here. His hands are bound, the sack is still over his face. His head’s pounding and his mouth is dry, he’s been hit too hard before and he knows this feeling. His stomach is roiling, the smell not helping - bodies, rotting cloth, rotting wood, damp. He knows it intimately and the thought of being back here is clouding his mind. Or maybe that’s from being knocked silly. He growls and there’s soft laughter before the sack is pulled off. Porthos recognises Charon at once and staggers up only to have someone get a boot in the back of his knee trying to bring him back down. He turns on them and drives hard into their middle, knocking out the wind. There’s the sound of blades being drawn, the click of a gun. 

 

“Now now,” Charon says, lazily, easily. 

 

Porthos turns on him, glaring, waiting. Charon waits until Porthos bows his head before getting up from his throne and coming down to Porthos, taking off the gag, untying his hands. Porthos blinks at him a moment before Charon laughs, affectionate, familiar. They always did play rough and this is Charon’s territory now, Porthos is an invader, a hostile. Porthos forgives the rough treatment, he hadn’t exactly expected softness. 

 

“Porthos,” Charon says, a smile playing around his lips. Porthos embraces him and gets a thump on the back in return a quick hug. “What are you doing here? I nearly had you shot before I recognised your scar.”

 

“Liar,” Porthos says. “You’d have known me, easy. I’m not that changed.”

 

“You are fatter,” Charon says. 

 

“You’re uglier,” Porthos says. 

 

“What trouble have you got yourself into this time?” Charon asks. “Come back begging for help?”

 

“Not really,” Porthos says. “It’s a friend of mine who’s in the trouble, and I’m not begging for anything. You owe me. Shall I remind you in front of all these nice people why you owe me?”

 

“I’m king here now,” Charon says, low and dangerous and Porthos hadn’t exactly forgotten the edge of everything here but he hadn’t quite remembered it either. “You don’t have leverage, you have no power, you have nothing.”

 

“I ain’t begging,” Porthos says, pushing too close. 

 

One of Charon’s men, still masked, comes forward. Porthos takes a couple of steps back and lowers his head again, furious but stepping on his pride. Charon’s right. He should be more respectful if he wants something. He bites back everything he wants to do, stops himself fighting with Charon like they’re boys, and calms down. 

 

“Here’s another old friend,” Charon says, gesturing to the masked man. 

 

Porthos looks more closely, with Charon’s invitation, and recognises her before she takes off the sacking. He’d know her swagger anywhere, know her skilled hands, know her hair. He knows her face, though, without a shadow of a doubt. 

 

“Flea!” He breathes, stepping toward her. Charon holds out an arm and Flea goes to lean into him, his arm around her waist. Charon levels a smug, knowing look at Porthos. He always was a jealous bugger. Porthos keeps his calm. “Congratulations.”

 

“You left,” Charon says, smirking. 

 

“What are you doing back?” Flea says. 

 

“I’m here for a favour,” Porthos says. 

 

“Done,” Charon says. “Name it. We’ll negotiate a fair price for whatever it is, but it’s yours. First, though, a drink. For old time’s sake.”

 

Porthos agrees and before he knows it he and Charon are drunk, reliving old times. They talk long into the night, until it’s almost morning again, passing the bottles back and forth, talking and talking until they’re hoarse. Porthos hasn’t laughed so much in a long time and he remembers this side of things, too, remembers this friendship. He’s missed it. He missed it so much at first he thought he’d tear the city down to get back here, but then it had dulled and his mother was happy, and he was learning to cook, and he’d found that, afterall, it was a sacrifice he could make. He remembers that moment of understanding and realisation, but his thoughts are interrupted by a snore. Charon’s fallen asleep on the table. 

 

Porthos hauls him up and leads him to a bed, directed by instinct and someone he runs into. He helps Charon stretch out and covers him over, Charon waking up enough to give him a rough shove and insult him. He’d tried to kiss Charon, once. They’d faught, kicking and biting and scratching, until his mother came and hauled them apart. Porthos leaves Charon to sleep and wonders where to go. He can’t go far, he’d be killed. He’s not sure where he’s allowed, where he’s not. He stands in the hallway outside, the damp making him sneeze twice. 

 

“Bless you,” Flea says, peeling away from the shadows. “Are you two quite finished getting drunk?”

 

“You could’ve joined,” Porthos says, tired and a bit drunk. He slings an arm around her shoulders. “Missed you.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You and Charon, huh?” Porthos mutters. “How’d you work that one out?”

 

“He was here,” Flea says. 

 

“You love him?”

 

“You’re an idiot, you know that? Never met anyone as stupid as you, Porthos,” Flea says. 

 

“Yeah I know,” Porthos says. “I’m drunk.”

 

“Hardly,” Flea says. “Where are you sleeping?”

 

Porthos looks around. Flea snorts and tugs him, so he staggers after her, watching her hips. She tells him off for it but she’s beautiful, he’s never met anyone quite like Flea, never has met anyone who’s so very much. He grins and saunters after her, enjoying her laughter when she realises he’s still watching. She turns as they find a room and he kisses her. He’s done this before, but last time he was clumsy and young and didn’t know what to do with himself. Now he does know. He pulls back, panting, to ask her permission. She gives it wholeheartedly, easily, and they fall onto the bed tangled together, pulling at each other’s clothes. Afterwards, he sleeps. 

 

“Charon can’t know,” Flea says, in the morning, stroking his chest. Like he hadn’t thought of that himself. “He’s a good man, Porthos, and he’s like me. He like it here, likes all of this.”

 

“I had to leave,” Porthos says. “My mother.”

 

“I know,” Flea says. “Thanks for the letters.”

 

“She was getting sick so much,” Porthos says. “She wanted more.”

 

“I know,” Flea says. “You’re the idiot, remember? Not me. She didn’t thrive here, and neither did you. I’m glad for you, even if I do wish you’d stayed.”

 

“You could have come with us.”

 

“I like it here,” Flea repeats. “They’re good people, just poor. We’re not criminals.”

 

They get up and get dressed and keep a good three feet of space between them as they go find Charon. He knows, of course he knows, but he doesn’t say anything. He probably thinks of them as even, now. Porthos has slept with both of them. He glares when Porthos grins at him. He agrees, though, to Porthos’s request, so long as Porthos pays up. 

 

“Flea’s got it,” Porthos says. Flea twirls the bag of money she lifted from him at some point.  “She’s the best thief here.”

 

“You were better,” Charon says. 

 

“Not likely,” Porthos says. “That was in my boot, Charon. I’ve had them on the whole time.”

 

“The whole time,” Charon repeats. 

 

“Yep,” Porthos lies, blithely, ignoring Flea trying not to laugh beside him. 

 

“Oh my god,” Charon says. “Porthos! You could at least pretend!”

 

“I am,” Porthos says. “Best thief here. Never took off me boots.”

 

“Fuck off,” Charon says. 

 

“They’ll gut me if I walk back through,” Porthos says. 

 

Charon waves a hand, and Porthos chooses to think that means he has safe passage back out of the Court of Miracles. It must mean something like that, or maybe Flea said something, or maybe he’s better remembered than he thought. Whatever the real truth, he reaches Paris again without a scratch on him. He is never, ever telling his mother what he just did, he decides, setting off for the countess’s, wondering what on earth he’s going to say about not showing up to work all this time. However much time ‘all this time’ is. 

 

**

 

A night and most of a day, his mother tells him, meeting him at the side-door and chastising him as he walks to his rooms through the kitchen. There’s no insults or friendly teasing today, just scared faces. Porthos goes to his room and strips out of his dirty clothes, looks around for water, letting his mother’s anger brush over him. He’s had her angry with him his whole life, he’s used to it.

 

“You stupid, stupid, man,” she says, eventually, stilling him. “People like us don’t live long if we live the way you do! I will not lose you, okay? Oh Porthos, you have a black eye again.”

 

“I know,” Porthos says, still looking for water. His mother’s feeling over his head, thumbs pressing the bones of his face looking for breaks. He hadn’t quite realised he has a black eye but he’s not surprised, his head still aches dully from being hit. 

 

“Hold still,” she says, voice soft and calm, now, hands professional like she does this alot. She has done it a lot, for him, because he gets hurt enough that she’s taught herself what to look for. He stills, meeting her eyes. “What have you done?”

 

“I went back,” he whispers. He knows what he does, with Treville and Richelieu and now Athos (and he supposes Aramis knows now too) is dangerous, full of risks. But he doesn’t want her life to be that. Definitely doesn’t want her life to be drawn back, sucked back into the court. “I saw Flea.”

 

“God damn you,” she whispers, not breaking his gaze, hands cradling his head now, stopped in their search. “Damn you.”

 

“I wanted to see them,” Porthos says. “They were my friends.”

 

“You can’t go back, we barely got out the first time,” she says, level, no emotion in her voice now. Impressing something on him that he’s missed; he knows the tone. “You would have died there. I’m a servant, I spend my days on my knees, so that you are safe. I promised the countess my servitude if she trained you to cook, I’m indebted to one of the most powerful women in France for you. My life is not my own, and I give it willingly, but you got your stubborn, stupid desire for freedom and independence from me, I want that too. It chafes.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

 

“I’d do it a thousand times over. The countess is kind enough, she dotes on you. She’s in a towering rage at the moment, seeing as you have been missing,” she says. “You are my son, though, not hers. You owe her your professionalism and some duty, nothing else. Tell her you were attacked.”

 

“That’s a lie,” Porthos says. Then he grimaces. “Sort of.”

 

“Tell her you were attacked on your way back here and that your friend the soldier let you stay with him. The countess will offer you protection if you hint that your friend is more than that. She is kind to those who society doesn’t embrace.”

 

“I’ll get you out,” Porthos says. 

 

“Go see the countess, tell her a story, and stop coming back to me in this state. That is all I need. And for fuck’s sake, do not join the army again. I know you’ve been hanging around the musketeers’ garrison, do not go back to soldiering.”

 

“It was fun,” Porthos says. Porthos grins as his mother’s mouth thins into a stern line, her eyes blazing with anger. “Alright, Mama, I won’t become a musketeer. I’m a cook, I like cooking.”

 

“One day someone will shoot you, and this time you’ll deserve it. Go, tell the countess.”

 

He suggests he clean up and put a shirt on first and she hits him, a gentle punch to the shoulder that makes him laugh, and swears at him like they’re back in the Court of Miracles. He goes to the countess with a whistle, content with his lot, and tells her he’s in love and that someone took his purse and left him nothing but bruises. She tells him not to let it happen again but then moves quickly on to ask him his opinion of starting a salon, bringing in the women of Paris and learning together. No, he realises, she isn’t asking his opinion, she’s just looking for an audience. He listens carefully and nods and makes noises in the right places, then heads down to the kitchens to start preparations for dinner. 

 

The other men and women who work in the kitchen are easy to win over, they’re more afraid of his mother’s ire than Ninon’s, and his mother is once more in a good mood. He and Lucy get started on the meats for tonight while Nicholas, the kitchen boy, gets started cutting and preparing fruit and vegetables. They work in companionable silence until Madeline and Louise arrive and start gossiping. Denys, the man who serves at table but also helps out in the kitchens when they have extra work, comes and sits and listens, putting his two-cents in over the marriages, deaths, love affairs and births of the surrounding households. Porthos settles into his work, thinking of Athos. He wants to go to see if they’re bringing him to trial, if he’s still in prison, find Aramis and get news, but he has to keep his job here. He’s not at liberty right now, so he cooks and shouts orders at his staff and thinks about Athos.

 

“Porthos,” his mother says, later, slipping into his room. He’s lying in bed, ready to sleep.

 

“Mm?” he asks, turning toward her as she comes and sits at his side. 

 

“I brought you something. For your headache,” she says. “I know you have one, you always get them.”

 

Porthos sits up and drinks what he’s given, lets her feel worriedly over his head again, assures her again that he’s fine. She gives him a tight smile. She looks sad a lot these days, Porthos wishes he could fix it. He promises one day he’ll be rich and he’ll buy her a house and she can have servants of her own, but it just makes her sadder. So he promises again not to go back to soldiering, promises to come home safe more, promises her all the things in the world until she gives in and smiles. She sits by him until he’s asleep, but he’s too tired to make anything of it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos is... really, really, so very very very drunk

Athos wakes up, and he’s still in jail. The silver lining is that it’s not the Bastille, but the storm cloud is that it’s not the Bastille, because it means they’re doing everything in a rush. He’s probably going to die; they didn’t want to waste the space. It’s wet. He’s lying on the floor, because there was nowhere else to lie down and he was drunk, and it’s wet. He gets up, disgusted with himself, this cell and everything that has happened. Treville talked to him about this, asked if Athos would do it, and he agreed - to catch the red guard out, to catch Richelieu out, to save the king embarrassment, for all kinds of reasons. He volunteered. He wishes he hadn’t. If he’d said no, would Treville have found another way? Athos doesn’t know the answer to that. He trusts Treville, with his life if it comes to it (and it seems that is _has_ come to it), but he’d rather not. He looks around, wondering if there’s anything to do. There isn’t. It’s just a bare cell, and the floor’s wet. He stretches. He’s hungover. He aches from sleeping on the hard floor. He aches because he’s been drinking too much wine again. He feels under his shirt and finds the locket.

 

_Anne_

 

He shouldn’t have loved her. He closes his eyes and replays moments, replays the feel of her, the sound of her laughter. Somehow, her laughter is wrong. He frowns, and replays it. As he does it’s Aramis he sees instead of Anne, head back, laughing at something Porthos has said, lit by the afternoon sun as they walked into the garrison. Athos never really thought much about Aramis beyond noticing he was annoying but somehow, that day in the courtyard, Athos had looked at Aramis and all he’d been able to notice was how beautiful he was. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He remembers after Aramis came back from Savoy, after he’d seen all the men but himself dead or deserted. He’d sat with Aramis, they’d got drunk together, they’d almost been friends. But it just hadn’t quite happened. They hadn’t quite got there, for some reason, and then time had passed.

 

Aramis is beautiful, though. Athos thinks it again as he’s brought before the judge later, so much later it’s nearly evening, and there Aramis is, pale with anxiety, looking like he didn’t sleep much better than Athos did. Who slept surprisingly well for someone in jail and sleeping on a cold floor. Aramis gives Athos a tight, encouraging smile, but as soon as the evidence begins that falls away leaving anger. Aramis’s eyes burn bright as people come forward to tell the court that Athos murdered, robbed, beat them. Athos watches Aramis, tuning out the evidence Richelieu has fabricated, tuning back in only to protest his innocence when asked. Aramis, Athos realises, is angry with _Treville_. Athos, curious, catches Aramis’s gaze and gets another tight smile. Aramis mouths ‘I know’ and looks between Athos and Treville. How he knows Athos hasn’t got a clue but it’s oddly comforting. It’s a relief to know that he’s not alone. Treville knows, but somehow that’s less comforting. Treville is part of this game that the cardinal is playing, is part of the schemes and intrigues of French political court. Aramis is not. Aramis is on Athos’s side. Athos manages his own tight smile in return. Aramis mouths ‘Porthos’, looks around, and shrugs. Then another little smile.

 

Athos didn’t dare hope. All he thinks is that he hasn’t know Porthos long, that Porthos has no obligation to be here, that is was technically a professional relationship. He doesn’t expect Porthos to come to his trial. Why would he have hoped, anyway? But he is still somehow disappointed. He might not know Porthos well but he knows him as warm and steady and comforting, and he misses his presence. He turns back to the proceedings and listens to the judge declare him guilty, listens to the king decide that he is to die for this. Richelieu sweeps past looking very pleased with himself and then Athos is being dragged away, the guards not at all gentle with him. He’s passed to new guards and loaded onto a cart, and then there’s a cry, a shot, and a bag’s being pulled over his head. He struggles, but he’s tied tight and someone hisses that if he moves he’ll be killed so he lies very still and listens. There’s nothing to listen to, though, as the cart jolts through the streets, no one paying it much heed after the first hurry, once they’ve slowed to an easy pace. Athos waits, tense, until he can assess the situation. The cart stops and he’s hauled off, dragged inside somewhere, and thrown to the floor.

 

“Would it have killed you not to bruise him?” a voice says, coming closer. The sack’s removed. “Do we know what he looks like, Charon?”

 

“Yeah, obviously it’s him. Porthos described him. Did he pay us enough not to bruise him?”

 

“Yes he did,” says the first voice. “And anyway he wasn’t wrong that night when he said you owed him, you do.”

 

“Yeah yeah. You are Athos, right? Porthos’s friend?” The second voice says.

 

Athos blinks. He’s still lying, tied. He looks up at two of his captors; a small woman with fly-away blond hair, bound and twisted up, and a tall man wearing floor-length robes with fairly spectacular cheekbones. He nods.

 

“Good. I’m Flea, that’s Charon, we’re friends of Porthos. Sort of. You’re stuck here with us for a bit, so you might as well get used to the smell,” Flea says. “We can untie you but only if you agree not to run off.”

 

“Run where?” Athos asks.

 

“Good point,” Charon says. “He makes a good point, Flea. Did you bring wine? Porthos promised us wine.”

 

“No,” Athos says. “I was in jail.”

 

“So?” Charon says.

 

“There was wine in the cart,” Flea says. “Porthos is very good.”

 

“How long am I here?” Athos asks. “Why am I here?”

 

“Porthos paid,” Flea says, crouching, pulling a knife out of her _hair_ to cut through the ropes binding him still. He sits up and rubs feeling back into his limbs. “Also paid us not to knock you out. Dunno how long, two days? Three? Whatever it takes till they can prove you didn’t do whatever you did, I guess.”

 

“I didn’t do anything,” Athos says.

 

Athos gets to his feet and looks around. They’re inside some kind of building, there’s cloths hanging everywhere, and there are people in the shadows, masked most of them. There is a lingering smell that’s not very pleasant, as Flea hinted. Athos has never been here before, he doesn’t recognise anything. He doesn’t even know if he’s still in Paris. He’s shown to a room, and then left on his own. He doesn’t dare go wandering, he can’t quite get out of his mind the image of Flea crouched over him with knives stashed in her hair. Or how Porthos had to pay so they didn’t knock him out. Besides, he heard the door lock behind him. There’s a bed here, though, that’s a silver lining. He stretches out on his back. And, somewhere, there’s wine. That’s something to hope for. Athos closes his eyes and goes back to thinking about Aramis.

 

***

 

Athos is left alone in the room for the rest of the day and into the night. It’s late, he can tell even though there’s no window, when the blond woman, Flea, slips in. She puts a finger to her lips and checks the hallway before relocking the door and coming over to where Athos is sitting on the bed, bored out of his mind. He’s been running everything over and over in his head but all he can think is that Porthos has some kind of plan. That’s not all that reassuring. He barely knows Porthos, most of the times he’s been with Porthos he’s been drunk or on duty, or both. He doesn’t know anything about Porthos beyond what he’s observed and what he’s observed is that Porthos has an ability to get into trouble. Admittedly, he also has an ability to get back out of trouble. Athos usually loops back around to the sense of security he’s got from Porthos despite all the evidence to the contrary and deciding that after all maybe it is comforting that Porthos has a plan. Then he’ll start wondering what plan, and it’ll go around again.

 

“So I just sit here while Porthos… proves I’m innocent?” Athos asks Flea, keeping his voice whisper-low. She shrugs, sits on the bed beside him, and pulls out wine. There’s that silver lining.

 

“Dunno if he cares if you’re innocent,” Flea says, at normal volume.

 

“Great,” Athos says. Flea hands him the bottle, as if expecting he’ll just drink straight out of it. He considers his options then does just that.

 

“We’re getting you out of the city. Porthos is relying on no one looking here. They’ll look. They’ll not find you, but we could do without the scrutiny, so we’re going to get you out of the city.”

 

“Is that what he paid you to do?” Athos asks.

 

“Doesn’t matter, it’s the plan,” Flea says. Someone else’s plan, judging by the set of her jaw. She’s angry about it, Athos can see.

 

“Very well. But I choose where you take me,” Athos says, thinking briefly of Pinon then discarding that.

 

“We already know where we’re taking you,” Flea says, exasperated. “There’s a nunnery, they’ll hide you, we do this a lot. After that, do as you please.”

 

She gets up and leaves again. She doesn’t take the wine with her, so Athos finishes the bottle. He hasn’t eaten today so he’s quickly drunk, which is a great improvement. He lies down and argues with Porthos in his head, castigating him for this stupid course of action. So what if Athos was sentenced to death, maybe death would have been better. What was Porthos thinking, turning Athos into a criminal? Athos turns on his side and closes his eyes, Porthos’s face swimming into focus in his imagination, Porthos standing before him proud and angry in return, telling Athos he’s an idiot to have gone along with Treville’s plan in the first place, asking what he was thinking. What was he thinking? They knew Richelieu would want to make a display out of whoever he caught. Why Athos? And what in hell did Treville plan, if Athos had been about to die? Would he have saved him? How would he have done that? Athos knows he’s a soldier, that his life belongs to the crown, he’s resigned to that. He’d rather die heroically on a battlefield, not as some pawn in an intrigue he doesn’t know the half of.

 

He sleeps again and dreams about Porthos, riding to his rescue, the cloths and damp wood and dirt of this place burning to the ground around them. He’s woken by Flea, early, with more wine. Is she keeping him drunk? He has no idea but he’s happy with that plan. He drinks as they slip out, dressed in rags, cloaks thrown over them. There’s another cart, slower this time, Athos lying in a space in the bottom with barrels stacked over him. They are in Paris, he recognises what he can see between gaps in the boards. There’s no search at the gates and Athos makes an internal note to check that. How did Porthos know who to pay, for this? Maybe he has connections through Pierre Ballaire, but that gentleman would be more likely to pay a servant to do the dirty work of finding kidnappers, these people seem to know Porthos personally. Maybe it’s Porthos Ballaire pays. Athos has so many questions, but there’s no hopes of answers so for now he keeps his head down. Besides, he’s drunk and the cart is lulling and it’s far too early. He goes to sleep again. When he wakes he’s being unloaded like the barrels, into a cellar. There’s a woman in a habit and Athos feels relief, then remembers that this is some kind of agreement that the Porthos’s people have with this convent. They can’t be the most upright of nuns, with that agreement.

 

Athos opens his mouth, but the nun’s already leaving, a heavy door closing behind her with a thud and a snck that suggests it’s been locked. When Athos checks it is, sure enough, locked fast. He looks for windows and other entries, but there are none. He sits down to contemplate his options, realises that there is wine and cheese and sausages down here. He realises he hasn’t eaten in far too long, his stomach is growling at him for it. He’s had wine and he’s used to subsiding mostly on wine, but his appetite, faced with food, is making itself known. He settles in and helps himself, eating until he’s no longer hungry then getting himself good and drunk. He’s slept so much recently that he can’t sleep more, so he drinks himself into a heady state and sings to himself, quietly in case he’s supposed to be hiding, sprawled in the corner.

 

“Oh my lord,” comes a voice. Athos peers up into the dimness, finds a candle flame and a familiar face looking down at him.

 

“Aramis!” he cries, happily, getting up to his feet and embracing the man. “There you are! Here I am! Look, there’s wine.”

 

“Not anymore,” comes another voice, laced with amusement. Athos turns and sees Porthos looking around.

 

“Porthos,” Athos says, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m not happy with you.”

 

“Sure,” Porthos says, biting back laughter. “You are very drunk, my friend. Did you eat their sausages, too?”

 

“They didn’t feed me!” Athos says, remembering that outrage. “Your criminal friends didn’t feed me either!”

 

“Flea said she left you food but you only took the wine,” Porthos says, peering at Athos. “You are really, really drunk, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes. They gave me food?”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says, gravely, then he bursts out laughing. “Aramis, you better go pay these good people so they don’t try and shoot Athos. We’ll sneak out while you do that.”

 

“Why me?” Aramis says.

 

“Yes, I should go with Aramis,” Athos says. “I am angry with you, Porthos.”

 

“Aramis is religious. My own mother told God to damn me, this morning,” Porthos says. “I’m hardly going to be in His good books after that, she has a lot of pull up there.”

 

“I want to meet your mother,” Aramis says, going up the steps to the heavy door and disappearing.

 

“Alright, sir musketeer. Can you walk?” Porthos asks, still sounding annoyingly amused by this whole thing.

 

Athos can walk. He proves it by falling over. Porthos half-carries him up the stairs and into wide hallways, laughing all the way, and then out into the cold air of night. Athos clings to his strong arm and shoulders, trying not to fall over again, swaying.

 

“I know nothing about you,” Athos says, each word carefully formed.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “And I know nothing about you, but I still saved you from getting your head lopped off. They expedited everything, we needed time.”

 

“Why do you know those people?” Athos asks.

 

“I owe you nothing, musketeer. You understand that? I don’t owe you a thing,” Porthos says. Athos nods. “I grew up there. The Court of Miracles.”

 

“In the Court of Miracles,” Athos repeats, not believing it.

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. “My father,” Athos reels a little at the hatred Porthos puts into the word, “told your saintly captain Treville and another musketeer to take my mother and me and leave us there. They did. I was a week old and my mother had just given birth, she nearly died.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Athos says, aghast, trying to take it all in while also being, yes, Porthos is right - very, very drunk. “Treville? My captain?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, between gritted teeth. Then he relents. “He’s not a bad man, just… when my mother found out he was in Paris, still alive, and still a musketeer, she went to him and he helped her get out.”

 

“Good,” Athos says, laying his head against Porthos’s shoulder. “Good.”

 

“I don’t owe you this story,” Porthos says.

 

“No, you don’t,” Athos says. “I dunno why you saved me, why you’re telling me.”

 

“I don’t like it when people get used,” Porthos says. “This is a stupid plan, what does Treville think is gonna happen afterwards? So what if Richelieu knows things?”

 

“If Richelieu knows that you know,” Athos says, frowning, eyes closed, working it out, working out ‘things’, “then he’d know that you are double crossing him.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis comes out, then, joining them and ducking under Athos’s arm. Athos is pulled away from Porthos’s shoulder, where he was beginning to doze off, and has to stagger along to a horse. Porthos laughs again as Aramis rides behind Athos, the horse they brought for him tied to Porthos’s saddle because Athos is too drunk to ride. Athos falls asleep against Aramis instead of Porthos, barely waking when he’s dropped from the saddle, caught by Porthos (laughing again) and carried somewhere. He doesn’t wake until morning, when the sunlight comes into where he’s asleep and sets his head pounding.

 

“Good morning,” Aramis says. Athos doesn’t open his eyes, just groans. “Are you going to vomit? No? Good. Here is water and breakfast, get up.”

 

Athos groans again, but Aramis doesn’t respond so Athos works on opening his eyes. He’s alone when he does, in a small clean room. There are curtains, he’s surprised to see, barely a crack to let the light in. There’s also a big mug of water and some bread and plain meat. He eats and drinks and looks around, wondering where he is. Aramis comes back in with a bucket of water and a bundle of clothing over an arm.

 

“Ah, you’re awake, good,” Aramis says, tossing the clothes onto the bed and putting the water on the floor. “Wash, change.

 

“Where are we?” Athos asks, ignoring the orders for the moment.

 

“An inn,” Aramis says. “We’re going to go find Porthos’s red guard friend, Dujon, to find out where Gaudet is. We need to find those uniforms, then we can clear your name.”

 

“There’ll be nothing to connect them to the cardinal,” Athos says.

 

“Wash, clothes,” Aramis says, again. Athos obediently kneels on the floor and sticks his head in the bucket. “Fuck’s sake,” Aramis is saying when he surfaces. “We’re not aiming for the cardinal, we’re aiming to clear your name, first order of business.”

 

“Right,” Athos says, looking about, wondering what’s next.

 

“And the rest of you? Is that staying dirty?” Aramis asks.

 

Athos decides that, yes, the rest of him is staying dirty. He gets undressed to change and before he knows what’s happening Aramis is soaking him, tipping the bucket over him, and there’s soap and more water and Athos protests but there’s not much point so he just glares until Aramis is done, then gets dressed, resigning himself to being forcibly cleaned.

 

“Better,” Aramis says, once Athos is in the new clothes.

 

They’re old and soft, worn, and he looks like he’s a servant. They’re also large on him.

 

“Whose are these?” Athos asks, examining himself.

 

“Porthos’s,” Aramis says, far too cheerfully. “From about ten years ago. He vastly underestimated how short you are.”

 

“I’m not short, he was just fat,” Athos says, and hears Porthos laughing from outside the door. “I’m beginning to hate that laugh.”

 

Porthos sticks his head around the door to laugh harder before vanishing again. Athos sighs and follows Aramis out when told to, mounts the horse he’s given, and rides where he’s told. He still has more questions than answers, and he’s suffering from the great quantities of wine he drank. He hasn’t been offered more, he notices. He is given plenty to eat and drink, but no more wine. It’s a conspiracy. He’s so caught up in his headache and confusion and irritation that it takes him far longer than it should to recognise the landscape around him and realise where they’re headed. He keeps quiet, because no one else knows, just him and Treville. There is no way they could be headed there. And yet, the longer they ride, Aramis and Porthos’s chatter coming back to Athos on the wind, the closer they get.

 

“Aramis,” Athos says, deciding Aramis is probably easier to get information out of than Porthos.

 

“Yep?” Aramis asks, reining back to ride beside Athos, passing over some more water.

 

“Where are we going? Is Porthos taking us somewhere?” Athos asks, narrowing his eyes at Porthos’s back. He can hear Porthos laughing again, but then he starts singing to himself, like he’s just happy or something. “How well do you know him?”

 

“Intimately,” Aramis says, implying everything. Athos scowls. “Fine. I’ve known him about a year, a little less. He comes and goes, does his own thing, seems to be friends with the captain. Recently I learnt a little more, we haven’t talked about it yet. I trust him. I don’t know exactly where we’re going, but we’re nearly there. Happy?”

 

Athos isn’t happy, he’s frustrated and angry. He knows Aramis, even though they’re not friends, most of the musketeers he’d trust. This is off, though, and he’s now sober enough to be a little afraid as well as frustrated and angry. He kicks his horse, he doesn’t even know her name, and catches up to Porthos, missing Jeudi when he lands a little ahead instead. Porthos stops singing to ride beside him.

 

“Where are we going?” Athos says.

 

“I-” Porthos stops before he even really begins, head turning sharply.

 

“Porthos, will you-” Athos starts.

 

“Shht,” Porthos says, holding up a hand. Athos tries to talk again but Porthos just shushes him, pulling in to a standstill.

 

“What is it?” Aramis asks, and he doesn’t get shushed. Athos lets his resentment go and listens instead.

 

“Horses,” he says, softly, hearing what Porthos heard.

 

“We’re on the road,” Aramis says.

 

“They might not be for us,” Porthos says, but he’s already leading his horse off the road and into the trees, Aramis and Athos doing the same.

 

They stop just within the branches and still, unseen. Porthos dismounts and holds all their reins and they wait. Athos’s horse shifts under him, he clicks his tongue and quiets her, leaning forward, rubbing her neck and giving her shoulder a soothing pat. When he looks up, Porthos is watching him, eyes curious and a little wide. Athos frowns. Porthos looks quickly away. The horsemen are coming up the road from the direction of Paris, men in dark cloaks. They’re not red guard, unless they’re out of uniform, that’s one thing. As they get close enough to make out their faces Athos can’t recognise anyone. He’s pretty sure they’re not red guard, and he knows a fair few of the palace guard. They don’t look like soldiers. He relaxes, but as soon as he does he tunes back into Porthos and Aramis and finds Porthos stiff and tense. Athos looks at Aramis, who meets his eyes and shrugs. They wait. The men on horseback don’t draw up, rushing by at a gallop. As soon as they’re gone Porthos gets back into the saddle.

 

“We need to go. Now,” Porthos says. “You know the rest of the way best, Athos.”

 

“You can’t be serious,” Athos says. “We’re going to Pinon? How the fuck do you know anything about that place?”

 

Porthos stares at him, then nudges his horse, coming closer to Athos. He’s so tense now, anxiety and anger rolling off him.

 

“You told me it was safe,” Porthos says, pointing at Athos. “We were gonna head somewhere else, but no, last night you said we’d come here, that you knew a place. Don’t tell me you were lying. We’ve come miles the wrong direction, if you were lying.”

 

“I wasn’t lying,” Athos says, embarrassed and taken aback. He can feel his face flushing. “I wasn’t lying. I was just… drunk. I don’t want to go to Pinon.”

 

“Haven’t got much choice, now,” Porthos says, wheeling his horse and kicking up the embankment back onto the road, calling over his shoulder. “Those were Pierre’s men, there’s no doubt in my mind they were looking for you. If you want to chance it, go ahead. Not my life that’s on the line.”

 

“Pinon it is,” Aramis says, cheerfully, following Porthos.

 

“Fuck you,” Athos mutters, also following, catching up and then taking the lead.

 

He supposes they are going to Pinon.

 

***

 

Porthos whistles admiringly when they reach the house, leading his horse right through the front doors into the entryway. Athos calls him back and points him irritably in the direction of the stables and Porthos laughs himself silly before explaining he hadn’t realised that was part of the house. He’s still laughing while they rub down the horses, Aramis chuckling along though he seems more entertained by Porthos’s amusement than anything else. He interupts now and then to ask Athos eager questions about who’s house it is and why they’re here.

 

“It’s mine. I own it,” Athos admits, cross and out of sorts and wishing for wine. There probably is still wine in the cellar.

 

“It’s huge,” Porthos says, easily, not cottoning on to what Athos owning this place means. They cut across the fields instead of coming through any of the villages on his land, they didn’t see very much.

 

“You own it,” Aramis repeats, clearly he knows more than Porthos does about land ownership. Athos gives a sharp nod and focuses on his horse.

 

“What’s her name?” Athos asks.

 

“Honey,” Porthos says. “Well, she has some fancy long name with a number, but I call her ‘Honey’ when I borrow her. She’s expensive so you better look after her. Oh, I paid with your money though, just so you know.”

 

“How?” Athos asks.

 

“Thought you wouldn’t mind,” Porthos says, without giving any particulars.

 

“Hang on,” Aramis says. “You own this, and I know what house this is, you’re the Comte de la Fere?”

 

“His name’s de la Fere,” Porthos says, looking at Aramis like he’s mad. “Obviously he’s the Comte de la Fere.”

 

Athos stops futzing with Honey and turns on Porthos, stalking over to him.

 

“You knew? You know?” Athos demands.

 

“I didn’t know it were a secret,” Porthos says, sounding genuinely baffled. “You have that sword, and you’re Athos de la Fere.”

 

“How did you know that part of my name?” Athos says, then he thinks of Treville. “Did the captain tell you?”

 

“I thought it was your name,” Porthos says, frowning at Athos. “It’s in your books. I hauled you home drunk three times, it’s written on stuff.”

 

“Right,” Athos says. “I hadn’t realised. I don’t use it, I just use ‘Athos’. Yes, it is a secret that I am…”

 

“A son of the nobility,” Aramis says, sounding impressed.

 

“There’s wine,” Athos says, turning abruptly and heading for the house.

 

Porthos chuckles again when they walk through the front door, whispering to Aramis again that he didn’t know this was _inside_. Athos ignores it and heads down, following the familiar stairs and finding the cellars just as he left them. He runs his fingers over the bottles until he finds a couple that appeal to him, then tries to make himself at home of the floor. Aramis and Porthos refuse that, though, making him show them over the house, nattering away, asking questions. Athos ignores the questions but he shows them around, even taking them back to the servants’ areas, into the kitchens. They grind to a halt there as Porthos runs about in excitement over everything, complimenting Athos’s cook for how they kept the kitchens.

 

“She was a good cook,” Athos says. “Servants make me uncomfortable, but they’re unavoidable in a place like this.”

 

Porthos stops, in the process of running his hand over the long wooden table, a knife in his hand that he was examining, and looks long and hard at Athos. Athos feels himself flushing again, he shifts foot to foot and then goes in search of a way to open the bottle. He can’t quite get into it so he smashes the neck against the table, checks for glass in the wine and sips it.

 

“That’s…” Aramis says, can’t seem to find a word, and confiscates the bottle. He finds a piece of muslin and a mug and pours out wine, strained through the cloth, and gives Athos the mug.

 

“If you’re both done?” Porthos says.

 

“Yep,” Aramis says, leaning his butt on the table and crossing his arms, keeping hold of the bottle, watching Athos drink.

 

“I’m a servant. My mother’s a servant. We make you ‘uncomfortable’? It’s not our job to soothe the guilt of the rich,” Porthos says. “You and Ninon. Honestly, it’s almost easier to work for people who aren’t so…”

 

Porthos trails off and looks around the kitchen again, going to replace the knife. Athos finishes the wine and holds his mug out for more. Aramis waits, turning to Porthos as if asking permission to top Athos up.

 

“I’m stuck here, what else do you want me to do but get drunk?” Athos snaps. “I do not like being served, I prefer to do for myself. Is that a crime?”

 

“No. But it’s a privilege to have the choice,” Porthos says.

 

“Yes,” Athos says, finding himself softening. “It is.”

 

“Ok then,” Porthos says. “We need to go, if we’re going to prove you’re innocent. Or at least innocent of these particular crimes.”

 

“Wait,” Athos says, taking the bottle from Aramis and topping himself up seeing as Aramis still hasn’t done the honours. “I never said thank you.”

 

“No, you didn’t,” Aramis agrees.

 

“Thank you,” Athos says. “I still trust Treville. Take all of this to him?”

 

“That’s the plan,” Aramis says. Athos catches Porthos’s grimace behind him but Porthos shrugs.

 

“I think it was in the way of reciprocation,” Athos says, talking directly to Porthos. He spreads his arms out. “This is where _I_ come from. I never wanted it, I did my best, it went to shit. I lost someone.”

 

“Ok,” Porthos says, again, softer.

 

“Let’s try and keep it secret?” Athos says.

 

“Oh yeah,” Aramis says, sarcasm cutting like a knife. “We saved you from angry nuns and risked our lives escorting you here just to go home and say ‘oh yes, he’s the comte de la Fere’, and send them right here to get you.”

 

Porthos laughs, coming around the table and shoving Aramis toward the door. Aramis pauses by Athos and gives him an awkward clap on the shoulder. Porthos gives him an absent hug as he passes, and then they’re both gone, out to the stables. Athos stands until he hears their hoofbeats retreating, and then he stands a while longer. Then he takes a long drink from the bottle, disregarding the broken top, and settles in for a long wait.


	4. Chapter 4

~IV~

 

They find Dujon in the third tavern they check, Aramis and Porthos wandering in arms around each other’s waists, heading to the bar to lean and sway into one another and look subtly around. Porthos must catch movement in the reflection on the bottle he buys; he ducks as Dujon swings at him. Dujon’s fist misses Porthos but gets Aramis, much to his annoyance. They drag Dujon out before a brawl starts up, pulling him into an alley and then across two streets, down between some buildings, another alley.

 

“Where are we going?” Aramis snaps, annoyed at being punched in the face.

 

“This way,” Porthos says, changing direction sharply, getting an elbow in Dujon’s face as Dujon reaches for a knife. “Oops.”

 

Dujon tries to escape so Aramis knocks him out with the butt of his pistol, which really cheers him up but makes it harder to walk. It’s quite noticeable that they have an unconscious red guard.

 

“Garrison?” Aramis suggests.

 

“You want him to know we’re the king’s musketeers?” Porthos says.

 

“Don’t we?” Aramis asks.

 

“No. Bring him to the countess’s, then go report to your precious captain, he’ll be ready to murder someone by now. Come on, let’s get his uniform off.”

 

They put Porthos’s cloak over him, too, and stagger about a bit as if they’re all a drunk. It’s morning but it’s early so no one comments. By the time they reach the richer streets though Dujon is starting to stir and they’re starting to stick out again. Porthos nips into a livery and rents a horse, dragging Dujon up with him and sending Aramis away. Aramis watches them go, worry gnawing somewhere. He didn’t lie to Athos, he does trust Porthos. He wants to talk, though, about what he overheard, what he’s learnt. He wants to know what Porthos is going to do with Dujon. He wants to be there for that. Instead he turns and heads at a trot for the garrison. Treville’s waiting, standing at his balcony surveying the courtyard and charting the comings and goings. There’s a group of red guards standing about, and a palace guard by the archway. Treville calls Aramis up and questions him loudly and angrily about Athos, Aramis’s friendship with Athos, what happened at the trial.

 

“He’s not my friend, you sent me to the trial,” Aramis says, loudly as well.

 

They’re being closely observed. Treville gestures Aramis into his office and continues on the same strain, quieter and more confidential but still not giving anything away about knowing more than he should. Then he makes Aramis accompany him up the Louvre. It’s not until they’re riding side by side that Treville gives a little.

 

“Yes?” he says.

 

“Safe,” Aramis says, then, because it’s the truth and may be pertinent, “drunk.”

 

“Next steps?”

 

“Porthos is finding Gaudet,” Aramis says.

 

“That’s it?” Treville asks.

 

“All I know,” Aramis says, quite truthfully.

 

They ride the rest in silence, dismounting and passing their horses to the waiting boy before heading into the palace. The cardinal is waiting for them in a long intimidating room, Treville just sweeps up it and gets down to business but Aramis is intimidated. He stands silently by Treville’s shoulder.

 

“The letters you sent Cornet with,” Richelieu says. “They have been recovered. His majesty is grateful I was able to return them. What was in them?”

 

“I haven’t the faintest idea, I do as I’m told,” Treville says. “As you know.”

 

“As I know,” Richelieu agrees, an amused, mocking edge to it. Aramis has no idea what the undertones are but he knows they’re there: there are two conversations going on at once, if not more. “Any luck finding your escaped, criminal, musketeer?”

 

“No,” Treville says. “That’s the red guards’ duty.”

 

“So it is. They haven’t had any luck, either. It seems he had some help,” Richelieu says. “I’ve had people looking for him.”

 

This goes on for a while. Aramis follows what he can but he hasn’t got enough information. These two have known one another for years, it becomes very clear that they’re having conversations across time and making references and using weird codes. Aramis is lucky if he even follows the surface layer, let alone the rest. He does manage to pick out that the cardinal knows what was in the letters, that Treville knows the cardinal knows, and that the cardinal knows Treville knows he knows. Richelieu seems to be trying to work out if Treville also has any knowledge of their content. Or, Aramis realises after half an hour, rather Richelieu wants to know if Treville thinks he knows, and if what Treville thinks he knows is accurate. What the letters have to do with Athos, Aramis has no idea. All he can untangle about Athos is that they’re both searching for him, neither can find him, and neither have any solid leads to pass on.

 

“These two incidents hardly look good for the musketeers, captain Treville,” Richelieu says. “I think the king may need to reflect on what trust he places in you. I will be advising this.”

 

“You always advise as you believe best,” Treville says. “Let’s find Athos. He is innocent.”

 

“He has been tried and found guilty, and then he ran,” Richelieu says. “If we find him, he’ll be put to death.”

 

“We shall see,” Treville says. Then he rubs over his face and leans on the desk which Richelieu is sat behind. “Armand, he didn’t do this. I wouldn’t say no musketeer could, but Athos… he never would. I know there’s a lot of evidence, but there’s some other explanation.”

 

“If you find it, let me know,” the cardinal says.

 

Then they’re leaving again, Aramis at Treville’s shoulder, out into the courtyard. So, the cardinal doesn’t know that Treville knows that he is behind Athos’s imprisonment. And Treville wants to keep it that way.

 

“Sir, do you mind if I take a few hours? There’s a friend I’d like to see,” Aramis says. “If you have no further need of me.”

 

Aramis notices, as he breaks away from Treville with permission for the rest of the afternoon off, that he has a shadow. He whistles as he goes, dismounting around the side of the countess Larroque's house. He’s never visited Porthos here but he goes along as if he has, greeting the stable boys and wandering through the gardens. He knows, at least, to make for the kitchens. He finds Porthos there, arms covered in flour, giving orders to two women as they make breads. Aramis clears his throat and Porthos comes over.

 

“What are you doing here? I’m working,” Porthos says, drawing Aramis out into the corridor and out of sight of the kitchen. Aramis pulls him gently further, so his tail outside can see when Aramis kisses him.

 

“I wanted to see you,” Aramis says, rubbing his nose against Porthos’s, smiling. “My captain gave me leave.”

 

“I’m working,” Porthos repeats. Then he sighs, eyes flicking up and probably spotting Aramis’s shadow. “Alright. I’m respectable here, though, okay?”

 

Aramis nods and Porthos brushes his knuckles against Aramis’s cheek before heading back to the kitchen, pushing Aramis to sit out of the way before going back to the breads, cleaning his hands before going back to kneading. Aramis is hypnotised by the quick movements of Porthos’s hands, the muscles of his arms, as he expertly works the dough. He listens with a half smile to the women (called Louise and Lucy, though Aramis doesn’t know which is which) as they tease and poke at Porthos. Aramis catches Porthos flushing, and he thinks suddenly that Athos has been here, too, that Athos sat just like this. He expects to feel jealous of that but he doesn’t. He is, he realises, warming to Athos. They’ve always been tentative and unsure of one another, even after that disaster at Savoy when they’d been close briefly. Now, he feels an affinity, like they have something shared between them in this kitchen. A woman comes in, breaking him out of his thoughts - everyone bows and curtsies (except Porthos, because Porthos is half in an oven with a hot tray of pastries in his hand. He sets them down before taking a leg in a neat bow that Aramis admires).

 

“Please,” the woman says, idly gesturing around for everyone to carry on. “I’m just here to inform Porthos that we have guests. They won’t be dining, but we need to provide food.”

 

Porthos nods and steps forward, the others stepping back. He talks with the countess Larroque (this must be her) in the doorway, heads close, then he goes back to work too and countess vanishes back the way she came. Aramis clears his throat, which Porthos ignores until everything is in the oven and things are ticking over. Then he comes to Aramis.

 

“We’ll take a walk,” Porthos says, decisively. “Lucy?”

 

“I’ve got it, Porthos. I know my job,” Lucy says, an edge of laughter in her voice but no irritation.

 

Porthos gives a few more seemingly needless instructions before tucking Aramis’s arm into his and leading him down a long, cool hallway. Aramis can hear giggling and whispers behind them, he wonders if it’s about him and Porthos but remembers Porthos saying he’s ‘respectable’ here, so probably not. He still preens as if it is them being gossiped about.

 

“Look at you,” Porthos says, laughing. “Are we still you know?”

 

“We’re always you know,” Aramis says, leaning close for a kiss. Porthos gives him one but also nudges his elbow into Aramis’s side. “Oh, that you-know. No, I think we’re alone. He came, he saw, he got bored watching you cook. I didn’t get bored, by the way, it’s hot.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Very,” Aramis decides. “Especially the kneading. You have very nice muscles. Did you get those baking bread?”

 

“Nah, brawling in the taverns,” Porthos says, steering them out into the gardens to do a loop of some very nice lawns and flowers and things. Aramis admires anything Porthos guides his attention to, but doesn’t really observe much.

 

“What did you do with Dujon?” Aramis asks, hoping they’re headed there.

 

“Let him go. He thought we ran into him by mistake and that I’m mad about the fight the other day. Doesn’t know a thing about Athos or them letters,” Porthos says.

 

“Which I would like to ask you about.”

 

“I work for Treville.”

 

“Got that much.”

 

“I pass him intelligence, mostly about court intrigues or things stirring in the city. This time he set me to watch a certain group of red guard, who have close affiliations with a couple of the rowdier gentlemen. I pass as gentle, with the right clothes, and I can use my father’s name. I’m the legitimate son of the Marquis de Belgard.”

 

“You are?!” Aramis comes to an abrupt halt, which stops Porthos too. Aramis stares at him. This is the second of his friends he’s discovered are noble in the two days, it’s a bit much.

 

“Not his heir or anything, he disinherited and disowned me as soon as he realised I’d lived. The young men Treville wanted me in with don’t care about that, just that I’m legitimate. It actually helps, none of them are interested in their family. They’re ‘rebellious’,” Porthos says, scoffing over the word. “I just convinced them I get money from him, showed them I’m very good at cards, and with a couple of times out and a few kicks in the right place, a few fights, I’m one of them. Anyway, recently I hear about this musketeer who they want to ‘get’. Everyone was drunk but I got enough to show up at the right time and place. Oh, I pass as a red guard, too, sometimes. The musketeers were already dead but I got the letters. Treville didn’t tell me about those.”

 

“That’s what they were talking about!” Aramis says, setting them walking again. “Him and the cardinal were discussing some letters.”

 

“I didn’t read them,” Porthos says, loftily. Then he grins. “Treville got the king to write to his brother in law, king of Spain, trying to cement the rocky peace we’ve got at the moment. I think the cardinal found out, that’s why Cornet died. We switched the letters for something else, I think Treville wrote something to the king’s estranged brothers or something, I sold those to Richelieu.”

 

“So now he wants the king to know how much he relies on the cardinal, and wants him to stop trusting the captain,” Aramis says. “So he’s discrediting us. Via Athos.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

 

“Why were you fighting the red guard, that day? When you kissed me in the courtyard. I liked that,” Aramis says, grinning, thinking of being kissed in front of everyone when he shouldn’t be being kissed at all.

 

“Anything for a thrill, you. Dujon recognised me, that I’d been there that night they did Cornet, and put two and two together. He got six, luckily. Thinks I’m a red guard playing as a noble, wants in on it. Besides, I beat him at card. Everyone was drunk, no one wanted to be arrested by an uppity red guard, Gaudet was drunk and wanted a fight, I wanted to talk to Treville,” Porthos says, shrugging. “It was a good fight.”

 

“So Dujon, now?”

 

“Thinks I wanted to get him back for that time,” Porthos says. “I went with that, said I’d challenge him next time we met. He said something about everyone else making up. Dropped enough hints. I think Gaudet is with Pierre Baillaire. I mean, there was a red guard there, the night I heard about Cornet, but … they must be working together. I know now that they both work for Richelieu, at least. And I’m not as trusted as I thought.Pierre sometimes gets me to do things for his ‘friends’, I knew that the cardinal was one but this seems to be more of an arrangement.”

 

“Do they suspect?”

 

“Nah, I’m just an upstart,” Porthos says. “Probably just don’t want me too far in on anything from the cardinal. And there’s genuinely animosity between them and any guard or soldier who can arrest them, they’re always making trouble. They don’t know that Richelieu pays me for information on them. It’s a bit of a mess actually.”

 

Aramis stills Porthos long enough to kiss him. He knows that Porthos has to be aware of the risks he’s taking, spying for the captain of the musketeers and getting entangled in court intrigues is never safe. Aramis isn’t going to point it out to him, isn’t going to lecture him. He is relieved that Porthos isn’t truly friends with Pierre Ballaire and the men he runs with, but faking it isn’t much safer. So he kisses Porthos for luck in the past and kisses him again for luck for now.

 

“When did you last see Adele?” Porthos asks, ruining the mood.

 

“I’m kissing you,” Aramis grumbles.

 

“Has she been in touch, since you got money from her for me?” Porthos asks, pushing Aramis lightly away.

 

“No,” Aramis says, something stirring somewhere far away.

 

“You’re really an idiot,” Porthos says. “You shouldn’t chase women just for the thrill of pissing off powerful men.”

 

“I like her,” Aramis says, defending himself.

 

“I know,” Porthos says. “But you also like the thrill. She hasn’t been in touch, go find out if she’s alright then meet me at the Ballaire’s livery.”

 

Aramis claims a few more kisses before doing as he’s told.

 

***

 

Porthos is waiting near the stables when Aramis rides up, leaping out of the saddle before he comes to a complete halt. He hadn’t been able to get to Adele and now he’s caught Porthos’s worry. Porthos sees it in his eyes and gives him a grim smile, enough reassurance to slow Aramis’s heart a little.

 

“Athos first,” Porthos murmurs. “Let’s find those uniforms.”

 

“You think they’ll still have them?” Aramis says.

 

“Not at Ballaire’s,” Porthos says. “Pierre’s not stupid. But I dunno where Gaudet lives or where he’s lying low. I do know that right now he’s at Pierre’s, so let’s go there. We’ll wait outside for him, follow him back. Connecting him to Pierre is good, but we’re not gonna get Pierre for this.”

 

“Ok,” Aramis says. “Can we get him for anything?”

 

“Not at the moment. Gaudet and Athos.”

 

“The cardinal and Pierre will come later,” Aramis says. Porthos nods.

 

The Ballaires’s livery isn’t close to the house, Aramis isn’t sure why they’re here, but Porthos has a few words with one of the stable hands and money passes between them, and then Aramis’s horse is taken from him.

 

“Anything for you, Porthos,” the hand says, laughing about something.

 

“He thinks we’re going to a hotel to bed one another,” Porthos explains, walking away with Aramis’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get us an alibi for when Pierre asks. Trust me, he’s gonna want to know where every single one of his people were this afternoon, once we’re done.”

 

They go to a little tavern where Porthos greets a few of the women. It’s not clean, there’s damage and dirt everywhere Aramis looks. The room Porthos takes him to is nice enough, though, and the sheets look clean. There’s a lot of noise from around them, people coming and going. Porthos locks the door, joins in with some of the noise, then opens the window and bows, gesturing for Aramis to go ahead. There’s a hissed conversation as Aramis misses the ‘obvious’ footholds and handholds and half-tumbles down the back of the building into the alley, Porthos landing lightly and gracefully beside him and already pulling him away, muttering about Aramis being clumsy. Aramis pokes him and tugs away so he can follow instead of being half-dragged. Porthos waits until they’re a few alleys away before stopping to grin at Aramis.

 

“You’re a horrible man,” Aramis says, rubbing his hands on his trousers and brushing off some dirt.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “I thought you’d be practiced at climbing out of windows and making an escape, the kind of women you sleep with.”

 

“People,” Aramis corrects. “I sleep with people. Are we going somewhere?”

 

“Yes, come on,” Porthos says.

 

They hurry up again and before long they’re hiding opposite a brightly lit house, carriages coming and going. Aramis asks how they know Gaudet is still in there but Porthos points out an upstairs window where they can see the silhouettes of people, and soon enough Aramis too recognises Gaudet. They settle down in their cold bush to watch young rich people while away the rest of the afternoon partying. Porthos starts shifting restlessly after half an hour, though.

 

“You need to pee?” Aramis hisses, annoyed.

 

“No, I have work,” Porthos hisses back. “Why’s he sticking around? Pierre can’t want him here.”

 

“Shh,” Aramis says, shoving Porthos.

 

Pierre Ballaire’s just opened the door and stepped out onto the top step. He’s waiting impatiently for someone inside, and a minute later Gaudet comes out. Porthos is right, Aramis can tell that Ballaire is trying to get rid of Gaudet. Gaudet himself either can’t tell or doesn’t care, he lingers chatting for a bit before sauntering away, greeting a lady as she alights from a carriage. Ballaire hurries down the steps to take over, giving Gaudet a push. Gaudet gets, putting his hands in his pockets and wandering out onto the street. Aramis and Porthos let him reach the corner before jogging after him, stopping to check before turning the corner. They follow him, leaving plenty of space between them, for a long time. It’s an hour before he checks around and ducks into a livery, coming out with a horse. Porthos curses but Aramis is already rushing to get horses for them, too, and they manage to follow Gaudet to the gate and then through, out of Paris.

 

**

 

“I’m gonna be so so late,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis shushes him, but it doesn’t have much more effect than the last few times Aramis tried it. He’s spent plenty of time with Porthos but this is the first time Porthos has been slowly melting with guilt and frustration about being late for work. Usually he’s laid back and laughing about it. That must have been part of the thing he does for Treville, Aramis thinks, and he can’t help but feel a pang of hurt about that. That Porthos has kept secrets is one thing, but that he’s been pretending to be something he’s not with Aramis is something else entirely. Gaudet is drawing in, though, and they have to as well. They stop and dismount before they catch up, and wait.

 

Gaudet has stopped about half an hour outside of Paris, at an inn. There’s no one there, no light, no houses nearby. This used to be a busy road but not anymore, barely anyone travels this way now, Aramis is surprised to find an inn here at all. Porthos is muttering about being late again so Aramis elbows him sharply in the stomach. Perhaps a little harder than necessary. They inch off the road and have to walk five minutes to find some trees where they can leave the horses, and then walk the five minutes back. They head along the road and crouch again, hidden by a hedge, watching the inn. A light goes on, but just the one light. Maybe it’s deserted, that seems more likely than any other explanation. What Gaudet is doing here, though, Aramis has no idea.

 

“What now?” Aramis asks, at a whisper.

 

“I dunno,” Porthos mutters, bad tempered. “We wait.”

 

“For what?” Aramis asks.

 

Porthos shushes him; Gaudet is coming out again, with a bucket. Porthos pushes Aramis down and whispers to stay put, then waits for Gaudet to walk away from the building before running, low to the ground, and ducking inside. Aramis curses him and Gaudet and Treville and everything under the sun. He can’t do anything, though. It’s getting dark, Gaudet won’t have seen Porthos but the more of them in there the more likely he is to notice. Who knows how long he’s going to be gone or where he’s even going. Aramis turns to try and find him again, but he’s gone around the side of the inn. Aramis listens and hears a clank, clank, and then water. He listens to more clanking, a curse, and then silence. Then Gaudet rounds the side of the building again, and Porthos isn’t back. Aramis gets up in a crouch, still waiting, a little frantic. Gaudet goes inside.

 

Aramis draws his knife and loads his pistol, lays out his sword, and readies to storm the building, waiting for Porthos’s cry for aid. It doesn’t come, though. There’s nothing to disturb the peace of the night. Aramis waits, wondering if he should go in anyway. He’s about to do that when there’s a clunk and a side door opens. Aramis tenses, but it’s just Porthos slipping out and across the pavestones of the yard back to their hedge. He throws himself down, takes in Aramis’s state of ready-alert, the weapons, and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Were you worried for me?” Porthos asks, too amused. Aramis wants to hit him. “This is what I do for Treville, you do realise that.”

 

“Shut up,” Aramis says.

 

“They’re in there,” Porthos says, passing Aramis his weaponry. “Nice knife.”

 

“Yes it is,” Aramis says. “Who are in there?”

 

“The uniforms,” Porthos says, looking at Aramis like he’s lost his mind. Which, fair enough, that’s what they’re here for. “Shall we?”

 

“Shall we _what?_?” Aramis asks.

 

“Storm the castle,” Porthos says, pulling out a knife from somewhere. “You’re a musketeer, you can arrest him, right?”

 

“Right, I can do that,” Aramis says. “Come on, then.”

 

Porthos laughs. He takes the side-door and Aramis takes the front, banging and making a fuss to be let in then breaking the door in. Gaudet must run for it, he’s not anywhere in the inn. Aramis runs through and out the back and finds Porthos and Gaudet fighting. He hesitates, not sure where he can help, then a shot goes off and he launches himself into the fight, tearing Gaudet away from Porthos. Gaudet has a knife in his stomach.

 

“Shit, shit,” Porthos says. “I didn’t mean to kill the fucker, fucking ow! You fucker!”

 

Aramis shoves Gaudet to the floor and pats him down, checking for weapons.

 

“Are you ok?” Aramis asks. “I’m arresting you, Gaudet, we’ve got plenty of evidence that you’ve been impersonating Athos. Porthos?”

 

“I’m fine,” Porthos says. “Ow. Tie him up.”

 

Aramis does, pulling the ropes too tight, ignoring Gaudet’s gasps for breath, ignores him swearing. Porthos has missed his stomach, actually, the knife’s in his side, hopefully it hasn’t hit anything vital. Aramis gets up when he’s sure his prisoner is secure and turns to Porthos, pulling him into the dim light spilling out of the inn and examining him.

 

“Just skimmed me,” Porthos says, pushing Aramis’s hands away.

 

“Where?” Aramis says, curt and sharp, trying to find out on his own. He’s a medic, this is his job. Porthos sighs but gives in, pulling his jacket away from his side. The ball is wedged in the back of the coat, caught by the leather. “You are a complete idiot. Why didn’t you do this up?”

 

“It’s hot,” Porthos says. “I’m fine, it just grazed my side.”

 

“You’re bleeding. Inside, now,” Aramis says. “I’ll bring Gaudet.”

 

They go inside and Aramis sees to Gaudet, first, making sure he’s not going to bleed out before they get him to Treville. While he does that Porthos gathers the uniforms he found and bleeds through his shirt. Aramis swears at him and shoves him into a chair, yanking his clothing away from the ‘graze’.

 

“This is deep,” Aramis says, calm now that he’s got the wound in sight and can do his job. “I don’t think I need to stitch it, though. I’ll bind it and have another look when we get back to the garrison.”

 

“I’ve got work,” Porthos says. “I need to go.”

 

Aramis doesn’t argue, figuring he can argue later. They have to go back to the place Porthos paid for a room, make a big noise about leaving by the front together. They buckle Porthos’s jacket and leave Gaudet on the horse around back, and are as quick as they can. The landlady stops Porthos and gets more money out of him for taking so long and Porthos chuckles low and dirty and says something that Aramis can’t hear but it still makes him flush.  He makes Porthos carry the uniforms the rest of the way so he has no choice but to ride to the garrison with Aramis, then he reminds Porthos that it was Aramis who paid for the horses so it has to be Aramis who takes them back, which means he can’t ride off. He sits in Treville’s office glowering, arms crossed.

 

“He’s injured,” Aramis says, to Treville, once they’ve told everything, Gaudet stashed down in the courtyard under guard. “You need to go to the Louvre and clear Athos’s name.”

 

“Alright,” Treville says. “Porthos?”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Porthos growls. Treville holds up his hands.

 

“Oh, a message came in while you were gone, Aramis. It’s on the desk,” Treville says, moving over to Porthos and trying to get a look at his wound.

 

Aramis ignores Porthos and Treville bickering in the background and picks up an envelope off the captain’s overflowing desk, slitting it open and reading it idly.

 

“Porthos, you are bleeding,” Treville says. “Stay still.”

 

“Get off me, _sargeant_ Treville,” Porthos mutters, sounding sullen but quiescent. Aramis’s lips twitch in amusement, but then he takes in what he’s reading and starts again. “Ow.”

 

“If you stayed still.”

 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers.

 

“What is it?” Porthos asks, coming over. He’s trailing his jacket that’s half off and bandages that Treville was fussing with, and he is indeed bleeding. He looms over Aramis and takes the note, breathing hard. “Ok. Treville, can you send a messenger to the cardinal and tell him you need to see him urgently? Say you’ve got something about the letters. He doesn’t give a shit about Athos but he’s interested in the letters.”

 

Aramis closes his eyes. Treville goes to send the messenger before asking questions, which is interesting and Aramis will be prodding that a little more later. He obviously trusts Porthos, which is odd seeing as Porthos is so belligerent and angry with him. Questions for another time. For now Aramis just breathes.

 

“What is it?” Treville says. “I sent the message, it should reach him. I think he’s with a mistress this evening but I know the house.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “That’s the problem. Never mind, captain, just keep him as long as you can. Tell him whatever you need, try and not tell him about Gaudet, we want him to stay alive long enough to prove Athos is innocent.”

 

“I’ll talk to the king at the same time,” Treville says.

 

“Right, good idea,” Porthos says. “Aramis, come on.”

 

“No, wait,” Treville says.

 

Aramis keeps his eyes closed and breathes. In and out. Treville is close and he keeps muttering, probably bandaging Porthos back up. Porthos yelps and then Aramis is being herded out of the room and he opens his eyes to rush down the steps after Porthos, glad they still have their horses as they make a dash through the city to Adele’s house. Aramis keeps urging his horse faster, Porthos keeping breakneck pace so they slide past Adele’s front door and on up the street before they can stop. That is their first piece of luck; they’re well past the doorway and can dismount quickly and hurry into shadows when they see the cardinal coming out the front.

 

“Did he at least tell you where I am to go?” Richelieu says, voice sharp enough to cut.

 

“The Louvre, sir,” a boy says, running after him.

 

“The Louvre. That’s hardly a specific location. Fine, fine! Stop following me, go away,” Richelieu says, striding to a waiting carriage.

 

Aramis waits for the boy to leave too before tying up their horses to a hitching post and going around the side of the house. Aramis doesn’t trust Adele’s servants anymore, not now. He hasn’t ever had to get inside without being seen before, he’s just had to leave that way. He can see Adele’s window, the one on the side of the building. He can’t see a way up. Porthos asks which it is and once Aramis points it out he starts climbing, using some kind of tool to get handholds, digging his toes in between the stones, his boots left with Aramis. Aramis watches, wondering if this is what Porthos does for Treville, too. Once Porthos reaches the window he sits on the narrow ledge and throws down a rope, then taps lightly on the glass. The window slides up and Aramis hears a scuffle, then the rope twitches. He gathers Porthos’s boots and climbs as quickly as he can, falling over the ledge on top of Porthos where he’s sat braced.

 

“Shh,” Porthos says, dragging the rope in after them and shutting the window again. “Look, see? I’m not a burglar.”

 

“Aramis!” Adele says, flinging herself at him. Her dress is in disarray and her hair is mussed.

 

“What happened to you? Did he hurt you?” Aramis whispers, turning her so he can examine her, checking her over.

 

“She was gonna scream,” Porthos says. “Understandably. Why’d you even open the window?”

 

“I thought it was Aramis,” Adele says, leaning into Aramis, pressing her face to his shoulder. That is a second piece of luck.

 

“And so it is me,” Aramis soothes. “We’re going to rescue you, don’t worry.”

 

“No we’re not,” Porthos says, rope neatly coiled again. “We’re gonna kill you. Richelieu won’t rest until you’re dead, so we’ll let him murder you. He won’t do that here, he’ll take you out into the woods.”

 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, sharply, feeling Adele start to tremble in his arms. “We are not going to kill you, Adele. Shush. It’s ok.”

 

“He’s right,” Adele says, pulling away, taking a deep shaking breath and turning to Porthos. “What do I do?”

 

“Nothing,” Porthos says. “Let him do his thing. I think I know the man he’s going to use, I’ll confirm it and switch the ball in his pistol. It’ll still hurt, but it won’t kill you. Wear a strong corset and a dress with a high collar, and this necklace.”

 

Porthos pulls out of his pocket an intricate piece of jewelry that looks almost like fine chain mail, little links of metal slotted neatly together, creating a barrier but still looking beautiful.

 

“What if he shoots me in the face?” Adele asks, undoing her dress so she can hold the necklace in place, turning for Aramis to do it up.

 

“He won’t,” Aramis murmurs, working the fastings together, fingers lingering against her skin. “It’s too messy. He’s a neat man.”

 

“We’ll be there,” Porthos says. “He might want you brought back to Paris, but I would guess not. If he does, it won’t be in his carriage.”

 

“It’s going to be okay,” Aramis says, pressing kisses to her neck.

 

“We have to go, now,” Porthos says, pulling on his boots. “You don’t know me, so trust in Aramis. Remember, a heavy corset, and do as you’re told, let him think you are helpless.”

  
Adele nods and then they’re back out of the window, back in the alley, back to the horses. Aramis wants to ask for details but Porthos is already gone, hissing to Aramis to find the cardinal’s carriage and follow it. Aramis goes, hoping Porthos’s plan works, hoping he isn’t going to watch Adele die tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

~V~

 

 

Porthos goes home. He doesn’t really have time, but at the same time, he has little choice. He’s missed so many days he’s supposed to be working, lately. As soon as he sets foot in the house Denys is there, wide-eyed, brushing his clothes off and pushing him upstairs. He knocks on the countess’s door and then runs off, leaving Porthos standing alone, waiting. He can feel a crisp square of paper in his pocket but that’s for later. The door opens and Ninon invites him in with a wave. 

 

“Take a seat,” she says. Porthos does, perching on the delicate chaise that she points him toward. She sits, too, beside him. He shifts. “When captain Treville came to me and requested the use of my cook, I agreed on the condition that I would still have a cook. So far, we’ve done quite well. Until, that is, the last few days.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry,” Porthos says, looking at his hands. He hides them quickly - there’s blood there. It draws her attention to them, though, and to him. 

 

“You’re hurt,” she says. 

 

“Barely,” he says, though actually the graze is burning and setting up a dull ache which his head is echoing. “A little.”

 

“Go see your mother, we’ll speak in the morning.”

 

“I can’t,” Porthos says. “My friends are in trouble.”

 

“Very well. You have two days leave to sort this,” she says, holding up a hand to stay his protests. “I have already found someone to cover your work, I had little choice. Do see your mother as soon as you can, she is worried for you. She doesn’t much like me, I can hardly reassure her.”

 

“What about your guests?” Porthos asks. They always say ‘guests’. Ninon trusted him with this particular secret only once he’d been promoted and the kitchen was effectively his, the women she shelters, running from bad situations. 

 

“We’re managing fine,” Ninon says. 

 

Porthos nods, and he’s dismissed. He hurries out, unfolding the paper Denys slipped him. As he hoped, it’s from Ballaire. Pierre likes to call on Porthos for the dirtier jobs and Porthos has encouraged it. He hurries, he’s already later than the letter demanded, he doesn’t have time to change his shirt even. He halts in the gardens and changes his mind, running back to the house, ignoring the ache of the long day and the sting of the injury. He slips into the kitchens and then through the cold room, and sure enough today is the right day to find a bowl of blood, covered, ready to be made into black puddings. He gets a water skin and decants as much of the blood as he can, wondering what the cook Ninon has covering for him is going to make of it going missing. He returns to his room and struggles out of his clothing and into the things he wears as a gentleman, running hands through his hair and twisting it into neater curls as he runs again, down to the stables, taking one of Ninon’s horses. Pierre is waiting for him on the steps to his house, he hurries down as Porthos dismounts, visibly angry. 

 

“Where have you been? I had to send Jussac,” Pierre says. 

 

"Sebastien? He’s rubbish,” Porthos says. “I was with a lover.”

 

“Yes, I heard,” Pierre says. “Fine.”

 

“What am I doing, anyway?” Porthos says, getting back into the saddle. 

 

“The cardinal has asked for a man, I am providing,” Pierre says. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “What am I doing?”

 

“What you do best,” Pierre says. “Now go, they’ll have already left the Louvre. We’ll talk tomorrow though, Belgard, I have questions.”

 

Pierre gives Porthos Adele’s address and Porthos rides back there, pausing in an alley to do what he needs to do with his pistol. It’s actually one Pierre gave him a while ago, which is going to work to his advantage. This time he finds the cardinal’s carriage and sees Sebastien mounted behind. Porthos nudges his horse until they’re side by side and then greets Sebastien with a grunt. 

 

“This is my job,” Sebastien says. 

 

“Alright,” Porthos says. Sebastien nods, pleased. “Monsieur Ballaire said to use this.”

 

Porthos unholsters the pistol and passes it to Sebastien, who looks it over disdainfully but puts it in his belt. Porthos catches movement at Adele’s door and hears her laugh, sees her coming on the cardinal’s arm. He wraps a scarf around his face and Sebastien does the same, the dark and cold of the night making it inconspicuous. The cardinal doesn’t even glance their way as he hands Adele up into the carriage, following her in and slamming the door. The set off at a meandering pace, Porthos hears Adele laugh a couple more times. They get stopped at the gate but the driver whispers and passes over a paper, and they’re let through with respectful, fearful bows. Out of Paris, they take the road that leads to the cardinal’s estate in the countryside, but before long they’re veering off onto smaller and smaller roads, and eventually off the road all-together, deeper and deeper into woods until the carriage comes to a stop. 

 

Sebastien dismounts and goes to pop the door, dragging Adele out. Porthos ignores her yells and pleading and follows Sebastien. The cardinal doesn’t come with them but he doesn’t leave, either, the carriage sitting there, the horses steaming, waiting. Sebastien hauls Adele along until they’re in a small clearing. She struggles, probably out of instinct, it helps; it means Porthos has an excuse to step forward and grab her, hold her against his legs to keep her still. She calls out Aramis’s name, struggles some more, then stills, breathing hard, limp in Porthos’s grasp. 

 

“Shoot her in the head,” Porthos says, making his voice low. Sebastien looks at him aghast. “Come on, let’s make a mess.”

 

“The car- the client said not the face,” Sebastien says, voice a bit shaky. He hasn’t done this very much. 

 

Neither has Porthos, but he has a reputation for it. He laughs and shrugs, holding Adele tighter. Sebastien puts the pistol right against her chest. Porthos is so glad Pierre sent Sebastien. There aren’t many men who’d do this, Sebastien would do anything if told but he’s easy to guide - tell him to shoot her in the head and he’ll refuse, and he’s scared witless and closes his eyes before pulling the trigger. The explosion is real and Adele gasps, Porthos feels her flung back against him. He slips out his pigs’ blood and pours it over her, crouching with her as she falls back. Her eyes are open and wide with shock, mouth open too - she looks dead. Porthos feels for a pulse and finds one, so hard and quick he’s almost afraid it will be seen. 

 

“She’s dead,” he tells Sebastien. 

 

“Good,” Sebastien say. “I’ll tell the client. I’ll ride back with him. You bury her.”

 

Porthos puts up a bit of a fuss and gets his pistol back but lets Sebastien take all the credit and leave him to do the heavy lifting. He waits until he hears the carriage creek, then the wheels rolling away. He stays still for a while longer, waiting. There’s movement and he tenses, holding Adele, barely daring to breathe. It’s Aramis who comes through the trees, though, and Porthos relaxes. 

 

“I was watching the road, they’re gone,” Aramis says, running over and dropping to his knees, hands fluttering over Adele’s bloody dress. “Adele. Adela.”

 

“She’s alive,” Porthos says. “I think she’s stunned. I told you, it’s still going to hurt.”

 

“I’m here,” Adele says, voice a whisper. 

 

“Good. Well done,” Porthos says. “Aramis, we need to get her to Paris. I know where to take her, but she’s covered in blood.”

 

“This is your plan,” Aramis snaps. 

 

“I didn’t exactly have time to perfect it, did I? It’s messy,” Porthos snaps back, crawling out from under Adele. “Give her your cloak, keep her warm, I’ll be ten minutes.”

 

“Ten minutes? Why?” Aramis says. 

 

“I have to dig her bloody grave, don’t I?” Porthos says, heading off a little ways. 

 

Sebastien has at least, kindly, left him a shovel. It’s an old broken one and it takes him more like fifteen minutes to dig a grave, throw in the pistol and the water skin and whatever else he can find, and fill it in again. If anyone comes looking, unless they dig her up, they’ll find what they need to. He heads back through the trees. Aramis is bent over Adele, kissing her. 

 

“You’re feeling better, then,” Porthos says. 

 

“You’re right,” Adele says. “It hurts.”

 

“Keep his cloak,” Porthos says. “You’re with me. Aramis, go find Athos, his name should be clear by morning but let’s... check he’s ok.”

 

Aramis gets to his feet and lifts Adele, holding her close. Porthos is tired and fed up and wants to be home, but he knows that Adele and Aramis won’t see each other again so he gives them a minute for their goodbyes. Then he lifts Adele onto his horse and they head back to Paris. There’s no way he can ride through the gates with a woman bundled in a cloak, so he stops outside the wall and heads around the city to a livery he knows. The owner won’t ask questions, knows Porthos, and will open late if Porthos bangs on the door hard enough. He gets a carriage and pays too much for it, putting Ninon’s horse into the harness and Adele inside. It’s much less conspicuous and he trundles them up through the city to the countess’s stables. 

 

He brings Adele inside, leaning heavily on his arm, taking the small doors and passages that he knows will be clear at this time of the night. He knocks lightly on the countess’s door and waits, shoulders and back aching holding Adele up. The bullet graze is a streak of fire, now, and he’s exhausted. He waits and waits for what feels like forever before Ninon comes to the door. She takes one look at Adele and beckons them inside, pointing Porthos to the chaise again. He lays Adele down there and Ninon starts undoing the stays of her dress. Porthos clears his throat and tries to leave but Ninon shushes him and Adele reaches for him so he just keeps his eyes away while Ninon checks Adele over. 

 

“She has broken ribs,” Ninon hisses. “What have you done, Porthos?”

 

“I’m just a cook,” Porthos mutters. He doesn’t mean to be belligerent, he’s just tired. 

 

“He saved my life,” Adele whispers, voice still barely there. 

 

“These are burns from a gun,” Ninon says. “Fine. You’ll be ok, we’ll take care of you. What’s her name?”

 

“Adele. Adele Bassett,” Porthos says. Ninon takes a sharp breath. “That Adele Bassett.”

 

“Ok,” Ninon says, voice a little high pitched. 

 

“He thinks she’s dead,” Porthos says.

 

“Right. In that case, you’d better stay dead,” Ninon says. “For now, you’re safe here. No one knows where she is?”

 

“No one,” Porthos says. 

 

“What about-”

 

“No one,” Porthos says. 

 

“He found out I gave Aramis money,” Adele whispers. Her eyes are full of tears. “I don’t know how he knew.”

 

“He was always going to find out eventually,” Porthos says. “You’re safe now. Ninon will keep you safe, now.”

 

“I will,” Ninon agrees, a little grim with determination. “Porthos, your mother is half wild looking for you, you should go. I’ll take care of Adele.”

 

Porthos gets back up to his feet, staggers, and then heads back to his own part of the house. He goes to his rooms and finds his mother sat on his bed, his bloody shirt in her hands. She looks up at him as he enters and her eyes are full of tears. 

 

“Mama,” Porthos says, wincing. “Um.”

 

“I thought you’d be safe, away from the Court,” Marie Cessette says, voice low. “I thought you’d be out of trouble. How is it you are always in trouble?”

 

“I dunno,” Porthos says. “The blood on me isn’t mine.”

 

“That’s not reassuring,” Marie Cessette says. 

 

“It’s pigs blood,” Porthos blurts. “I was helping someone.”

 

“I brought water. Wash,” Marie Cessette says. 

 

Porthos kneels to do so, too tired to do a very good job. He gets most of it off though, and then strips out of his shirt without thinking, forgetting he’s injured. His mother comes and kneels beside him, then, taking over, a soft cloth running over his skin. 

 

“Stay here,” she murmurs. “I’m going to get clean water.”

 

Porthos nods. He’s closed his eyes at some point, he nearly falls asleep while she’s gone. He starts when she touches his shoulder but she shushes him. The cloth is back, and then her hands at his side undoing the bandage. She presses cold water carefully against the wound, ignoring his quiet hisses of pain. 

 

“You need a stitch,” she says. 

 

“Aramis said it looked ok,” Porthos mumbles. 

 

“Hm. I say you need this stitched,” Marie Cessette says. 

 

Porthos doesn’t like being sewn up but when it’s his mother, humming as she works, it’s not so bad. It really is only one stitch, as well. Then there’s another soft cloth, dry this time, and new fresh bandages. Porthos has to get back up to his feet, staggering. His mother steadies him and undoes his trousers, helping him sit on the bed and taking off his boots. 

 

“I have made a decision,” she tells him.

 

“A decision?” Porthos mumbles, lying down, his blankets smoothed over him. 

 

“Yes. You are old enough to take care of yourself, now. I can’t keep on doing nothing but take care of you.”

 

“You do loads of things,” Porthos says, half asleep already. 

 

“But all of it is for you. I need more in my life. I’ve been doing some sewing for a woman, madam Bonacieux. Her husband is a cloth merchant. We’ve always discussed starting a business, taking in more work,” Marie Cessette stops talking a moment to kiss his forehead. “We’re going to do it.”

 

“That sounds wonderful,” Porthos says, drowsy. 

 

He feels his mother settle beside him, sitting on the small bed with him, stroking his hair. She says something about finding leaves in his curls and he falls sleep to her soft laughter, another kiss pressed to his head, her hands soothing away the pain of today. 

 

***

 

In the morning Porthos wakes early. He helps Lucy in the kitchen for a bit but after an hour Serge from the musketeers’ garrison stomps in, grouchy and bad tempered at having to work and not just hang around the garrison. He tells Porthos that he’s wanted elsewhere, and Porthos leaves him to it, grinning as he hears Serge telling Louise off for forgetting an egg somewhere and something about Nicholas getting underfoot. Nicholas does get under foot a lot, Porthos is always nice about it, maybe some of Serge’s brusker kindness can solve the problem. Porthos flicks the apple he stashed up his sleeve into his hand and saunters down to the side-gate, sallying out into the city. He takes the walk to the garrison easy, he feels good this morning but he can already feel an ache in his side where he was shot. It’s more an itch than real pain, but it’s very annoying. 

 

Treville is waiting for him, up on his balcony surveying his little world. Porthos decides he’s owed a bit of sympathy and slows his walk to a limp, holding the bannister as he makes it up to the balcony, panting a little bit too for the show of the thing. Treville watches him, eyes sharp and careful. He’s wary, but he reaches out to Porthos, steadying him, letting go as soon as Porthos is clearly fine. Porthos feels an old grief pull tight in him, then loosen a little bit. Treville might be ineffective and do the wrong thing nine times out of ten, but he seems to be trying. All the time, trying, without having any idea what it is that’s wrong, how to fix it, what to do. 

 

“You’re limping on the wrong side,” Treville says. 

 

“I’m good,” Porthos admits, grinning. Treville lets out a tiny huff of laughter. “Athos?”

 

“The judge will officially look at the evidence this morning, but his majesty is bored of this. He says it’s clearly Gaudet, that he went mad, and that’s explanation enough for him,” Treville says. “Gaudet is in the Chatelet until the judge throws him into the Bastille.”

 

“So Athos isn’t gonna be put to death?” Porthos checks. 

 

“No. I wouldn’t have let him die,” Treville says. “I’d have intervened. Oh, the cardinal presented the king with the letters he ‘saved’ from the ‘treasonous rebel guards’ who killed Cornet. His majesty now knows that they were switched, and is grateful that the cardinal still has no idea what he actually did. I may have mentioned your part in that.”

 

Porthos isn’t sure that ‘thank you’ is the right response to that. His first instinct is not gratitude. He’d really rather not be under the scrutiny of the king of France, and he’d really rather the cardinal not find out that he has ever worked for Treville. 

 

“I mentioned that you were one of Richelieu’s men,” Treville says. “He said that he would… what were his words… commandeer you. I think you’ll have to become a musketeer, I’m afraid.”

 

“You fucker,” Porthos says, idly, without heat. “Lend me a horse.”

 

Treville does, a scrawny mare that Porthos is annoyed to ride but also quite likes. She’s got spirit. Porthos decides he’s not going to give her back to Treville, he’ll keep her and fatten her up and take care of her. They ride slowly, the jolting of her uneven walk hurting him. Again it’s more of an annoying itch than real pain, he remembers real pain. Coming home from a battle carried on a cart, bleeding into the wood. And he remembers, longer ago, as a child, his head splitting, his face feeling like it was cut in two. This is just an itch. He rides quietly, slowly, stopping at a market in a small town. He doesn’t reach Pinon for a few hours. He takes the path through the back way like Athos did, not sure what other way there is to go, and ends up getting wet up to the knee because of riding through rough instead of on roads. He’s a bit annoyed when he reaches the big house, so he rides up to the front door to knock. It’s Aramis who comes out, and Aramis who laughs at him. 

 

“Still think this is outside, huh?” Aramis says. 

 

“It’s Mercredi’s fault,” Porthos says, sliding down off the horse and hugging Aramis. “Morning. Adele’s fine.”

 

“Good, excellent. Athos is in the cellar.”

 

“The… the cellar?” Porthos asks, looking around at the expansive house. 

 

“Yes,” Aramis says. “I am not in the cellar, I slept in a bed and am staying in the house, not the cellar. He’s set up a bed there and he’s drunk most of the wine, he won’t come out. I’m going to see to your horse, you can deal with… all of that.”

 

Porthos grabs his bag off Mercredi’s saddle before Aramis can lead her away, shoulders up with irritation. He heads through to the kitchens and grins around at all of it again, kindling a fire. As he works the strains of someone singing rise up through the paving stones and he laughs, whistling along as he gets set up. He cooks a big breakfast, laying things out on the long wooden table as he goes, the fruits and breads and good things he bought from the market supplementing his own cooking. Aramis seems to be hiding out in the stables but Athos has stopped singing. Porthos listens, grinning when he hears a clunk and scrape of a heavy door opening, footsteps shuffling. Athos appears in the doorway, still in the clothes he had on when Porthos left him, a bottle of wine in one hand. 

 

“Good morning,” Porthos says. “You’re innocent.”

 

“Excellent,” Athos says. “You cooked.”

 

Porthos nods. He plucks the wine out of Athos’s grasp as he passes and Athos barely reacts, taking a seat and helping himself to food. Porthos sits, too, and pours what’s left in the bottle into a mug for himself. Athos doesn’t seem to mind having his wine taken away, he drinks water and eats a lot. Aramis joins them and eats enthusiastically as well, sat beside Athos. Porthos watches them, something curdling in him. His side hurts and his head’s beginning to ache, too. He drinks the wine and eats a little, watches as Aramis flirts with Athos, Athos blushing and not looking up at him but shuffling a tiny bit closer. Porthos gets up and goes to see to Mercredi, check Aramis has been kind to her even though she’s bony and a bit rubbish, leaving them to it. Athos, to Porthos’s annoyance, follows him and stands in the doorway awkwardly, trying to set his clothes to rights. Porthos ignores him. Athos sniffs his own armpit, makes a face and goes away. He comes back soaking wet but much more sober. 

 

“What’s the matter?” Athos asks, coming to stand by Porthos. Porthos runs a hand over Mercredi’s forelock and focuses on her. “She’s a good horse.”

 

“I called her Mercredi. Treville had some convoluted fancy name for her, but she’s a Mercredi,” Porthos says. Athos laughs, which is very unfair. 

 

“Sorry. My horse is called Jeudi,” Athos says. 

 

“I know that,” Porthos says, exasperated. “Jesus, Athos.”

 

“I’m mostly drunk,” Athos says. “In general.”

 

“I noticed.”

 

“Are you angry with me?” Athos asks. 

 

“No, course not. Just… I’m a bit out of sorts,” Porthos says, sighing, resting his head against Mercredi’s neck. “And my head bloody hurts.”

 

“Oh? Aramis said you were hurt,” Athos says, coming around and feeling over Porthos’s head as if for lumps. 

 

“Just my side, I’m fine. Just get these headaches sometimes,” Porthos says, closing his eyes. “My mother says it’s probably still from when…” 

 

Porthos decides he doesn’t really want to tell that story so he just turns his head and gestures to the scar across his eye and cheek. Athos reaches out and touches, fingers careful, and then, to Porthos’s surprise, he presses a kiss over the scar. Porthos’s eyes fly open. Athos is stood very close, face grave and gentle. He looks into Porthos’s eyes asking a question, then leans forward, lips so close Porthos can feel him breathing. Porthos closes his eyes again and closes the space, pressing his lips against Athos’s, kissing him. 

 

“We should return to Paris,” Porthos says. 

 

“Oh, probably,” Athos agrees, lightly. “Let’s not, though. Just for now. We can go back this afternoon.”

 

“Aramis.”

 

“Is inside, waiting. I already kissed him,” Athos says. “He’s a bit grumpy. He’s mad that you kept secrets from him and that I hid in a cellar and that… I’m not sure, there are lots of things.”

 

“You already kissed him,” Porthos says, testing the words out. 

 

“Yes. I thought it would be best if I kissed you both. It seemed fairer,” Athos says. 

 

Porthos huffs a soft laugh and reaches for Athos’s hand, pulling him closer for another kiss. Athos strokes his cheek and touches his scar again when they break apart, then leads him back into the house. Aramis is waiting, arms crossed. He has a lecture prepared about not going down to the cellar bed and leads them instead to the first floor, to a large, opulent but dusty room, a huge bed in the centre. It’s not the cleanest, but it’s clean enough and the pillows smell like Aramis. Porthos decides that what he really needs is a nap, so he curls up in the middle of the unmade mess Aramis has left things. Aramis lies down beside him easily and they both wait. 

 

“Come on, Athos,” Porthos says, eventually, losing patience. “This was your idea, come lie down.”

 

“Oh, right,” Athos says. “That’s what we’re doing. No one explained.”

 

Porthos reaches back for Athos’s arm when the bed sinks under his waist, yanking him closer. They might not be tired enough to sleep, but they’re all definitely tired enough to lie around and do nothing for a bit.

 

***

 

They ride back to Paris three abreast, passing a bottle of wine between them. Well, Porthos and Aramis are sharing wine, they are not sharing with Athos, who is a bit grumpy about it but has no choice but to admit that he should probably not add to his drunkenness, seeing as he nearly slid off the horse when they started out. He’s drinking water and complaining about the sun existing. Aramis is telling Porthos idle stories about growing up in a distillery, but Athos is clearly not listening at all. Other than the complaints about the sun he’s mostly silent. 

 

“So why do you think it was me who was sentenced to death?” Athos says, interrupting Aramis telling about a time he got stuck up a tree and had to be rescued by the ‘woman he loved’ (he was fourteen at the time, as was she). 

 

“Luck of the draw?” Aramis suggests. 

 

“Nah, they were real specific picking Athos,” Porthos says. “They made a whole big thing about it, both the red guard and at Pierre’s. Want me to find out? I think Pierre will still buy me a drink. He’s not gonna suspect much. Especially,” Porthos adds, grinning, looking innocently up at the sky, “if he spots Athos kissing me. Passionately. Won’t suspect I’m working, just that I’ve got many lovers who are soldiers.”

 

He expects Athos to laugh or protest, but he just nods gravely and agrees to kiss Porthos ‘anywhere he might wish’. Porthos feels himself blush and Aramis laughs at him, so Porthos kicks Mercredi into a trot. She’s game and when Aramis dashes past making too much noise she has a go at galloping. Porthos yelps. He hadn’t expected her to go so fast, or for her to just go like that. He gets a better grip on the reins as they pelt along, dust billowing behind them. He passes Aramis quite easily like that. He does draw her in a few metres up the road, though. He’s going to take good care of her, take it nice and steady. Aramis stops too, kicking up dust around them and making them cough. They wait for Athos to catch up on Jeudi, still at a saunter. 

 

“Do you think it’s important, that it was me?” Athos asks. 

 

“Dunno. Maybe someone just has a vendetta against you and took the opportunity, piggy-backing on the cardinal’s plan,” Porthos says. 

 

“I have no enemies,” Athos says. 

 

“That’s definitely not true,” Aramis says. 

 

“I’ll go drink with Pierre, see if I can learn anything,” Porthos says. “Treville says I have to be a musketeer.”

 

“You’re going to be a musketeer!” Aramis says. “Porthos! That’s wonderful!”

 

“My mother won’t like it,” Porthos says. “This is Treville’s solution to get me out of the tangle between him and the cardinal without the cardinal cottoning on that I was playing him. And, you know, having me killed.”

 

“Always good to stay alive,” Athos says. “There’s Paris. Finally.”

 

“Haven’t you enjoyed our good company?” Aramis teases, riding too close to Athos and making him and Jeudi both fuss.

 

They head for the garrison, wondering if maybe there’ll be some lunch by the time they arrive. They’ve ridden slow and after their nap it was getting on in the day anyway. Athos asks (belatedly) about Porthos’s headache, which is entirely gone, and Porthos returns the favour. He’s being subjected to a long monologue about the evils of sunshine when they idle into the musketeers garrison. Treville is waiting, arms cross, in the middle of the courtyard. They stop before him, all of them grinning. 

 

“Well?” Treville says. 

 

“Well…” Athos says, frowning. “Yes, I’m well.”

 

“You’re officially cleared,” Treville says. “All three of you are wanted up at the palace. You were all due there this morning, however, seeing as  _ none of you showed up _ …”

 

“We didn’t know to show up,” Porthos says. “I’m going home first, I need to see my mother and she has the afternoon off.”

 

“I think the king may have something to say about you putting your mother ahead of him,” Treville snaps. 

 

“The king wants to see us?” Aramis asks, leaning forward. 

 

“I just said that,” Treville says. 

 

“No, you said we were wanted at the Louvre,” Athos says. “That’s never meant we’re wanted by the king before. Unless we’re on duty. Or you’re wanted by the king and you’re dragging me along. Or-”

 

“Shut up,” Treville says, gesturing to a stable hand and calling for his horse. 

 

He rides ahead of them, ignoring them whispering to each other trying to work out if they’re in trouble or not. Porthos thinks they probably are, because the king of France wants to see them. Athos doesn’t care one way or another. Aramis seems to certain they’re going to be showered in praise for… he’s not really clear on what. Saving Adele and Athos is hardly something the king gives a shit about. Porthos considers maybe the letters business, but Athos and Aramis weren’t involved in that so probably not. Treville glares at them when they’re still at it by the time they reach the Louvre. They pass their horses into the care of boys who are waiting and head into the palace. Porthos has been here before, through the side entrance and just to the cardinal’s public rooms though. This is different. The front is… bigger. Everything is high ceilings and light, tiled floors in intricate patterns, everything ornate even the stonework. Treville leads them through and back out, down some cloisters to a lawn where king Louis the thirteenth is sat under a canopy, watching with a cross look on his face as two gentlemen fight for him. He brightens when he sees them coming. 

 

“Treville! Excellent. Your men can surely do a better job than this?” the king calls, gesturing to where the two young men have drawn apart again. 

 

“My men are soldiers, your majesty,” Treville says. The implicit ‘of course they can’ goes unspoken. The king waves his hand and the gentlemen bow to one another and to the king before withdrawing. “Sire, I think…”

 

“I don’t care what you think. You, will you fight for me?” the king asks, pointing to Porthos. “You can fight Athos, I know Athos is excellent with a sword.”

 

Athos bows to the king and turns to Porthos, eyebrow quirked. Porthos opens his mouth, but he has no idea how to address a king. He bows instead and that seems to be acquiescence. Before he knows it he’s facing off to Athos, with a sword in his hand leant by Treville. He’s a little distracted by Athos down to his shirt, jacket and cloak discarded. He looks like the sword’s an extension of him, his posture is so neat and tidy, his eyes so focussed. Porthos grins and Athos lunges, Porthos getting his blade up just in time. Athos isn’t fighting for show, Porthos realises a minute in. He’s fighting for fun, but not for show. Porthos feels determination stir in him and he lowers his stance and defends, keeping an eye out for an opening. Athos gets through his defence twice but Porthos jumps away and they circle each other again both times. Porthos attacks, pushing Athos but barely - he really is very good. And Porthos has done this, Pierre likes sparring Porthos is more or less in practise, but he hasn’t grown up with it. He can tell that Athos has, his body and his sword are one and the same. Porthos jumps out of the way again. Athos is also bloody quick. 

 

Well, Porthos has faught worse. He laughs, dancing out of the way and adding a little flourish. The king of France cheers for him and Porthos likes that, likes having an audience. He defends another attack and makes a lunge of his own, easily turned back by Athos. Which is fine, Porthos isn’t fighting to win. He keeps up his end and doesn’t let Athos beat him, that’s all he can do. Athos should beat him, but Porthos is having a good day and he might not be good at swordwork and he might not know all the footwork, but he knows fighting. All he has to do is turn this into a brawl. Maybe he’s fighting to win, afterall. He just has to be careful, remember that he is not fighting for his life. Just for the fun of it, for the king of France. He grins, skips lightly out of Athos’s way, then gets in under Athos’s guard, taking a blow to his shoulder that probably cuts him. He roars, jerking his head up into Athos’s chin. Athos yelps and Porthos pushes on, barreling into him. Athos is surprised enough to go down and Porthos laughs, leaping to his feet. 

 

“A victory!” the king says, clapping. 

 

Porthos bows, incredibly pleased with himself. He turns and helps Athos up, ignoring Athos’s glower. Athos rubs his chin and snorts softly, pushing Porthos back toward the king. Porthos turns and accepts the applause, happy. 

 

“This is Porthos du Vallon, your majesty,” Treville says. 

 

“Is it? Excellent,” the king says, on his feet and coming forward, a cup of wine in his hand. “Who is that?”

 

“And this is Aramis,” Treville says. “These are the men you asked to see.”

 

“I told you to bring them to me this morning,” the king says. 

 

“They were out of the city,” Treville says. “Sorting out that small… confusion.”

 

“Ah yes, the red guard. See to it in the future, Treville, that you are better prepared for such things,” the king says. 

 

“Yes, sire,” Treville says. Aramis and Athos take up a position either side of Porthos and bow so Porthos takes a leg as well, following their lead. 

 

“Very well,” The king says, sighing. “Tiresome as it has been, the business with the red guard has been of certain use. As all three of you have been… instrumental… in bringing this to light, I’m sure we can think of some just reward. Money, perhaps. Yes. Treville, sort that will you? Oh, Porthos, I understand you want to be a musketeer?”

 

Porthos doesn’t know what to say. Aramis elbows him in the gut, catching his injury. Porthos shifts to straighten up (once he’s been addressed he can do that, right?), as he does he makes sure to get the heel of his boot on Aramis’s foot. 

 

“Yes, sire,” Porthos says. He does, he realises as he says it. Despite his mother’s concerns and his reservations about Treville and everything else. It’ll be infinitely saver than what he has been doing, anyway. And Aramis is wincing and trying not to yelp beside him, pinned by Porthos’s heel. Being a musketeer means more of this, more of Athos and Aramis. 

 

“What do you do now?” the king asks. 

 

“I’m a cook,” Porthos says. There’s a drawn out silence. Porthos realises that promoting a man from cook to musketeer is a bit of a leap. “I’ve been a soldier, I served under Captain Dessesart until I was injured.”

 

“I thought you were the Cardinal’s man,” The king says. 

 

“Yes, sire,” Porthos says. 

 

“Oh very well,” The king says. “Sign up and I’ll promote you within the month. I assume Captain Treville will take it on himself to remind me.”

 

“Thank you, sire,” Porthos says. 

 

There’s another silence, then the king gestures irritably for them to go away. Treville hurriedly bows and they leave again, back the way they came. Porthos is stunned. Treville stops to talk to someone in some very fancy clothes. 

 

“Pinch me,” Porthos whispers. Aramis gives him a questioning look but Athos just gives him a sharp pinch. “Ow. Ok, I’m awake. This is surreal.”

 

Athos holds his elbow again, lips twitching up just a tiny bit. Treville comes back to them and gives them each a small bag. It clinks. Porthos starts to untie it to take a look inside but gets a glare so he puts it in his boot, tucking it inside the lining there with the rest that he has. Aramis gives him a strange look for it, but it’s a good place to keep money, no pickpocket’s gonna look in a boot and it’s secure enough he can give them a good kick if they ever did. Athos pockets his and tugs Porthos’s elbow to set them moving again. Their horses are held ready for them and they ride back out into Paris. 

 

“I have duty at the garrison,” Treville says. “Athos, you’re officially still dead but report tomorrow morning. Aramis, you somehow have the afternoon off. Again.”

 

He rides away, tipping his hat to Porthos. They wait until he’s out of sight before examining what they’ve been given and comparing. They’ve all been given the same. It’s not a huge amount but it’s enough to make the ride up to the countess Larroque’s a cheerful one. Porthos stables Mercredi and pays the stable hands to look after her, promising to get permission from Ninon for him to keep her there. 

 

***

Porthos leaves Aramis and Athos and goes to one of the taverns Pierre favours. He’s not there, but there’s a group of his men and Porthos joins them, welcomed easily. They ask where he’s been and he makes a few lewd remarks to placate them. It’s easy to sink into and easy to drink, his cup always topped up. They want stories out of him so he makes something up about a laundry and a laundress and a cake that has them howling with drunken laughter. He’s a little drunk himself, enjoying having an audience, when Pierre strides in. He’s got an ugly look on his face and he makes right for Porthos, hauling him up by the collar. Porthos goes, laughing, letting Pierre do his thing. Once he’s on his feet, though, he twists out of the grip and steps forward, baring his teeth and yelling right in Pierre’s face. Pierre steps back, paling, then goes red with anger and steps up too. 

 

“What’s this I hear about you turning musketeer, Belgard?” Pierre snarls, spitting the word. Porthos makes a show of pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his face. Pierre likes these shows, likes Porthos to be big and brawling and eager for a fight. 

 

“Yeah, so what? They offered,” Porthos says, pocketing his handkerchief. “My father probably heard about me using his name or something.”

 

“Bastard,” Pierre snaps, growling low in his throat. 

 

Porthos would roll his eyes at the posturing, he only needs to make one move to have Pierre flat on his back. Pierre fancies himself as something of a fighter, though, and Porthos wants information from him, so instead he shrugs, lets his lip curl in disgust, and throws himself back into his seat. It screeches over the tile and into William. 

 

“How should I know?” Porthos mutters. “Not my fault.”

 

He wonders if Treville has a plan for extricating him from this situation, too, neatly tied up in a bow like the other. He regrets using his father’s name, but at the same time, no one here knows him as ‘Porthos’ and there’s no connection to Ninon’s. Just, somehow, to his audience this morning. Maybe the plan is to arrest Pierre, though for what Porthos has no idea, as far as he knows all Pierre has done is… well, there are the letters. Porthos frowns. Richelieu had asked where he got them, offered him money for the information beside what he paid for the letters. Porthos had turned him down, just been rude and called the cardinal names. Pierre’s taken a seat and helped himself to wine, glaring around, saving an extra venomous glare for Porthos. 

 

“It’s your fault anyway,” Porthos mutters. “You sent me on that job for the cardinal. Why’d he care anyway? Why’s he got us playing at being his red guard? He’s got idiots for that.”

 

“Are you talking?” Pierre says. 

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Met Athos, of the king’s musketeers. He has a very pretty face.”

 

Will makes a joke about Porthos’s affinity for soldiers and Porthos leers and says something about muscles and swords, Pierre laughs, kicking Porthos under the table. Porthos calls for more wine and tells a racy story about a soldier, a horse, and a hat. It happens to be true this time and he gives enough detail that he’s believed, but not enough to trace the parties involved. Pierre watches him carefully but the more they drink the more flighty his gaze until Porthos risks dropping Athos’s name a second time, pillowing his head on his arm and sighing out a comment about Athos’s arse that he’s sure Athos will not thank him for if he ever finds out. Porthos was careful to talk around how he was going to get this information, not giving specifics. Pierre likes him because he’s a brawler, and because he tells these stories - he seems to think of Porthos as some kind of curiosity. 

 

“Why are we in this shit hole?” Pierre says, eventually, getting up. 

 

Porthos is the only one sober enough to follow him out into the darkening street, and they meander through Paris, heading for an inn closer to Pierre’s house. Pierre asks a question about the stable-hand Porthos knows at the Ballair’s livery but Porthos has an answer lined up, and he makes another comment about the musketeer thing, but he doesn’t seem very interested anymore. 

 

“What’s your argument with the musketeers anyway?” Porthos asks, steering Pierre into the inn, calling for wine. To his astonishment Pierre sits and  _ sighs _ , gazing into the distance, eyes bright. 

 

“She’s so beautiful,” Pierre whispers. Then he scoffs. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”

 

“I can appreciate the female form,” Porthos says, grinning. “Just so happens my path hasn’t run across anyone interesting lately. Beautiful, huh?”

 

“The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen,” Pierre says. 

 

Porthos pours him out a generous helping of wine, and next he calls for rum. Before an hour’s out, he’s got the whole story from him, and with it a plan. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

~VI~

 

Aramis doesn’t mind waiting, he’s perfectly content to sit for hours at a time, perfectly content doing nothing. He’s excellent at being still and being alone with his thoughts. He’s a patient man, diplomatic, relaxed. He jumps to his feet again and paces the small confines of the inn. Athos just takes a long drink of his wine and trips Aramis when he passes, dumping him back into a seat. 

 

“How long is he going to be?” Aramis asks, slumping, bored and tired and  _ bored.  _

 

“Who cares? Have a drink,” Athos says, and starts singing. 

 

Again. 

 

Athos isn’t a man who wants an audience, nor one who wants attention, but let him get into his cups and he’ll sing to himself, quietly, under his breath. It’s incredibly annoying. Athos has a nice voice, if he’d just raise it a bit it’d be nice to listen to, but he won’t. It’s just a drone, slightly beyond the comfortable threshold so you’re straining to hear. Aramis gets up and goes for another loop of the tavern floor, bumping into the landlady and liberating a bottle of something from her, ignoring the protest. 

 

“Here,” a warm voice says, Porthos appearing at the woman’s shoulder with a purse of money. “Give him whatever he wants, I’ll pay.”

 

“Generous,” Aramis says, finishing his circuit and tripping over Athos’s foot again. 

 

“Not my coin,” Porthos says, taking a seat, beaming at them both. 

 

“It’s not mine again, is it?” Athos asks, narrowing his eyes at Porthos until he’s just got his eyes closed. “Hmm. This is nice.” Porthos laughs and Athos’s eyes snap open, and he sits up straighter. “I’m not drunk.”

 

“Sure,” Porthos says, still with a silly grin on his face. “I am. What did you get, Aramis?”

 

“Piss-weak beer,” Aramis says in disgust, passing it to Porthos. “What’s the verdict?”

 

“Pierre is in bed, quite literally, with the cardinal’s spy,” Porthos says with relish, sitting back, drinking the piss equably. Aramis turns to see if he can catch the landlady’s eye but she’s avoiding him. 

 

“Are you sleeping with him as well?” Athos asks, peering at Porthos. “Good lord, you must have the stamina of a man half your age.”

 

“How old d’you think I am?!” Porthos says, affronted. 

 

“Forty six,” Athos says, not even hesitating. Porthos roars and dives across the table, spilling beer and nearly knocking over the bottle of wine. When he sits back Athos has the beer and Porthos has the wine. 

 

“ _ Now  _ it’s your coin,” Porthos says, flicking a purse out of his sleeve. Athos sighs mournfully and drinks the beer. “Not me, anyway.”

 

“How old are you?” Aramis says, intrigued now and wanting to know. He himself is twenty six, which he feels is quite old enough, but he’s sure Athos is at least thirty. Porthos looks indeterminate, his happy smile making him younger, Aramis is sure, than he actually is. “You’re too beautiful, I can’t tell.”

 

Porthos flushes, stilling, and goes shy, to Aramis’s surprise. He reaches over and touches Porthos’s cheek, the pink of it, and laughs softly, nudging him to look up. Porthos twitches his head away, face scrunched up. 

 

“I think you’re beautiful, too,” Athos say, from across the table. “I could have said that. If I tell you nice things will you blush for me, too?”

 

“I’m not blushing,” Porthos says, cheeks heating more. 

 

“You are magnificent,” Athos says, tilting to the side. “Absolutely splendid.”

 

“Oh, stop it,” Porthos says, but he’s ducked his head again and he’s smiling. Aramis smiles, too, and realises he’s been quite side-tracked. 

 

“Twenty four,” Aramis guesses. 

 

“What? No, fuck’s sake, I’m twenty nine,” Porthos says. 

 

“An old man,” Aramis says, nodding gravely. Porthos reaches over to half-heartedly flick Aramis’s ear, then looks around and tosses Athos’s purse, calling for the landlady. She comes over for Porthos, but still avoids Aramis, so Aramis is stuck drinking the warm white wine Porthos accepts. “This is also piss.”

 

“I like it,” Porthos says. 

 

“It’s meant to be cold,” Athos says, taking a sip from Aramis’s mug. “Well, cool.”

 

“I know,” Porthos says. “Still like it. Do you wanna hear about Pierre’s nefarious plans?”

 

“Yes, sorry,” Athos says, sitting back with the jug. 

 

“In bed with the cardinal’s spy,” Aramis says. 

 

“Yeah. Apparently,” Porthos says, eyes a bit wide, turning to Athos, and Aramis realises he really is drunk, “you once hanged her, de la Fere.”

 

Athos goes sheet-white and drops the jug, jumping to his feet and knocking his chair into a big man behind him. Aramis isn’t sure of the exact sequence of events but somewhere along the way he ducks, Porthos reaching over him to smack a fist into someone with a fleshy sound, and he’s under the table while Porthos slides over the table, and the three of them are back to back, and Porthos is throwing a chair at someone, and Porthos has beer froth in his curls and is roaring at people. Aramis throws himself into the fight joyfully, he’s been sat still all afternoon and he’s bored as anything. There’s a happy ten minutes of whirling noise, doing his best to get a hit in first, dodging and ducking, laughing as he goes. He bursts out into the street with a mob from inside and they carry on there, slipping on the cobbles, no one really sure why they’re fighting. 

 

Their fun is broken up by a clatter of horses and Aramis legs it, catching sight of Athos and grabbing him as he passes. He turns, looking for Porthos, but he’s shoulder is gripped and Porthos is laughing, roaring past him, dragging him into a run. Aramis follows, Porthos ducking into an alley and jumping a wall and winding them about until they’re breathless and staggering, far from the chaos they accidentally created. Porthos is hardly steady and he’s laughing so much he’s tripping as he goes. Athos is sober as a judge, as they slow to a walk he keeps a few feet ahead, arms around himself. Aramis watches him, noting the way he’s tucked into himself, his shoulders up around his ears, twitching whenever they get too close. That’s no good, Aramis stops and gasps for breath, making a show of it, leaning on his knees. 

 

“Need to get you in shape, monsieur soldier,” Porthos says, stopping with him, hand falling to the small of Aramis’s back and rubbing. He’s warm and comforting and Aramis sighs into it, straightening up. Athos is stood up ahead, waiting. “Where to?” 

 

“Garrison?” Aramis suggests, then changes his mind. “Are we near another inn?”

 

“Sure,” Porthos says, looking around. “Where are we?”

 

“I don’t know, you got us here,” Aramis says, laughing. Porthos turns a circle and heads off confidently. “Athos, this way apparently.”

 

Athos follows, a few feet behind this time. Porthos does know where they’re going, it turns out. There’s another small tavern, this time a little quieter, a little richer, with food. He pays again, dropping Athos’s purse on the table. But,

 

“This isn’t mine,” Athos says, opening it and taking out a couple of sous.

 

“It’s Pierre’s,” Porthos says, shrugging. “They both were, I was teasing. He won’t miss it. I may have actually pickpocketed you that first day, I owe it.”

 

“I know,” Athos says. “I’m not so rich I won’t miss eight sous.”

 

“Porthos,” Aramis chides, but then the food comes and Athos just pockets everything, reserving the argument for another day. 

 

“Anne,” Porthos says, once they’ve eaten and are sat back, legs stretched out. They’re sat against the wall, all in a line, a bottle of wine between them. Red, this time. “She goes by Milady de Winter, now. Monsieur de Winter is dead.”

 

“Anne de la Fere. I thought she was dead, too. I am humiliated,” Athos whispers.

 

“Hardly,” Porthos says. “On both counts. I dunno how she did it, I suppose bribery, but she’s not dead. Pierre says he swore to help and she asked only that he put forward your name to the cardinal when he was asked to supply a name. Which he duly was, and did.”

 

“She would hate me enough for it,” Athos says, voice still low. 

 

“de la Fere,” Aramis says. “You have a brother?”

 

“No,” Athos says. “Not anymore. I did, he died. He discovered that my wife bore the fleur de lys, she hid it from me, she was a criminal who escaped the hangman’s noose once before. She tried to cover up her crimes by killing my brother. When she was caught she just admitted everything, throwing herself on my mercy. I think she assumed that I loved her too blindly. I nearly did.”

 

“Impressive,” Aramis says. “You really do have a tragic backstory. I was beginning to think you were just this grouchy.”

 

“I am this grouchy,” Athos says, voice more strident again. 

 

Porthos doesn’t seem to have any regrets at all for dropping that information on Athos so sharply, Aramis isn’t sure why. If it had been him, he’d have been much more gentle about it. He looks Porthos over and realises, again, that he really is quite drunk - he might not have noticed anything. He’s also got a bruise around his eye that looks like it’ll blacken it by morning. Aramis sighs and goes to ask the landlady for something cold. He returns with ice, which he hadn’t been expecting her to have, wrapped in his scarf. Porthos beams, struggling to focus on him, and presses his face to the scarf in Aramis’s hand. Aramis sits and holds the ice in place for Porthos, who hums happily. 

 

“He’s quite drunk,” Aramis says, over his head to Athos. Athos nods, not looking at either of them. Athos does that, though, the not looking thing. It doesn’t mean much. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yes,” Athos says, head tilting to the side. “I am. How curious.”

 

“You were married to her?” Porthos asks, sitting up straight and turning on Athos, finally catching up. “Lord, I’m sorry.”

 

“What on earth did you assume?” Aramis asks. 

 

“I dunno, he’s a noble isn’t he? It’s their job to mete out justice and … keep the king’s peace,” Porthos says. “My father has people hanged. He tried to convict my mother of thieving, when she worked for him. She was lucky.”

 

“He’s right,” Athos says. “As comte I did have a certain amount of judiciary power. She was my wife, I took her to the magistrate. Tell us the rest, Porthos.”

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “Um. Pierre. So Milady, that’s what he calls her, makes it sound like an idol or goddess it’s quite blasphemous… she’s why it was Athos the cardinal went after. But her connection with Baillaire is great.”

 

“Why?” Athos asks. 

 

“Well, the cardinal knows I got his letters somehow, he didn’t tell Gaudet or Pierre anything about that job,” Porthos says. “I bet you anything, though, that Milady knew a thing or two. From what I read between the lines that Pierre told me, she’s a sneaky, conniving, clever woman. I’d bet good money on her knowing more of the cardinal’s secrets than he’d really like.”

 

“The plan,” Aramis says, tiring of Porthos’s meandering story. 

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “The cardinal offered me money for information on where I got the letters. I’ll go back to him and say now I’ve got better information and if he wants it he can pay twice as much, and I can drop Milady  _ and  _ Pierre right in it.”

 

Athos almost, almost smiles. 

 

***

 

Aramis has to walk Porthos home, after they’re done in the tavern. Athos goes his own way, perfectly sober, saying something about needing to bury the past, hand around his pendant. Aramis takes Porthos’s elbow and steers him back to Ninon’s, where Marie Cessette is waiting. She takes one look at Porthos’s bruised face and leaves, telling him Aramis can do it this time. Aramis laughs, keeping soft and quiet, and nudges Porthos so he sits on the bed instead of missing and sitting on the floor. 

 

“How often do you come home like this, mon ami?” Aramis asks, smiling, palming Porthos’s bruised cheek so he’ll look up and Aramis can examine him more carefully than in the tavern. “Is there ice?”

 

“Mm, dunno,” Porthos says, leaning into Aramis’s touch. 

 

Aramis goes in search, but can’t find any. He finds cold water outside and wets a cloth, using that to cool the swelling instead. It doesn’t look too bad. He helps Porthos undress and wishes he could stay, wishes he could stretch out beside Porthos and rest. Porthos drags him down, obviously wanting the same. 

 

“I’ve got to make sure Athos is ok,” Aramis whispers, wriggling to escape Porthos’s clutching arms. Porthos grumbles and pouts, then lets him go, stroking his hair. 

 

“Is he ok?” Porthos whispers. 

 

“That’s what I’m going to make sure of,” Aramis reminds. He relents, though - Porthos is really quite drunk, he turns tearful eyes on Aramis. “He’ll be fine. We’ll ensure it.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos breathes, relaxing. “Make sure of it.”

 

Aramis stays a little longer, seeing as Athos had mentioned wanting to be alone and Porthos clearly doesn’t want to be alone. Aramis expects him to drop off to sleep, but he lies on his back and watches the ceiling, humming a little to himself off-key. Eventually Aramis leaves anyway, slipping through the garden to the side gate. He’s in a hurry and he nearly bowls someone over, waiting there in the dark. Aramis draws his knife automatically. 

 

“Aramis,” Athos hisses, before Aramis can stab him. 

 

“Oh. Sorry,” Aramis says, putting it away. “Were you looking for me?”

 

“No,” Athos says. 

 

There’s a silence, then Athos sighs and gestures back to the gate. Aramis is pretty sure it’s watched, Ninon Larroque hardly seems the type to leave such easy access unguarded, but they must be known. No one stops them as they sneak back through to the house and into the kitchen, through to Porthos’s room. There’s a click and Aramis freezes. 

 

“Porthos,” Athos hisses. 

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, lighting a candle. He’s naked from the waist up and he’s got a pistol. Aramis’s pistol. 

 

“Oi,” Aramis says, taking it back and stashing it, wondering how he hadn’t missed it. 

 

“We’ll not all fit,” Porthos says, looking at his small bed in consternation. 

 

They try, but Porthos is right. Three grown men do not fit in a small trestle bed. Porthos laughs, smothered quickly by Athos. He hauls the mattress off and pads away, returning a bit later with additional blankets. They make themselves as comfortable as possible, Porthos whispering that his mother’s going to never forgive him (Aramis gathers, after a bit, that Porthos had gone to her for more bedding and she’d caught sight of additional bruising across his torso and thrown something at him). It would be cold but they’re packed close and Porthos is a furnace. It should be uncomfortable, but it’s not. Admittedly, Aramis is lying more on Porthos than off. Athos starts to sing quietly, voice hoarse, buried somewhere near Porthos’s armpit. Aramis sighs, quite content, and goes off to sleep. 

 

***

 

It’s easy, in the end, to get the cardinal to buy Porthos’s story about Milady and Pierre. Porthos returns from the Louvre with a clinking purse and a wink, and he makes himself at home in Treville’s office while they wait. It’s only half an hour before the cardinal’s carriage draws up to summon Treville, and then a further ten minutes before Treville returns with orders to arrest Pierre Ballaire for conspiring to treason. Milady they hear nothing of, but when Pierre is taken to the Chatelet he’s got plenty to say on the matter, cursing Porthos’s name. They go to a tavern afterwards, of course, and sit comfortably with a bottle of wine on the cardinal’s coin. 

 

“We’ve got money,” Porthos says. “That’s good.”

 

“The cardinal isn’t stupid, he’s going to work some of it out when you sign up and get promoted, Porthos,” Aramis says. “And there’s still the small detail that he knows I bedded his mistress.”

 

“Ah yes,” Athos says. “That… small detail. Treville will protect Porthos.”

 

“Yeah, Richelieu will still have it in for the musketeers,” Porthos says. “And there’s Milady, probably going to be coming for us too, if she possibly can. Not gonna be happy we lost her the cardinal’s trust.”

 

“We’re not dead,” Aramis offers, cheerfully. They might have made a few enemies over all of this, but he doesn’t care - he’s also made good friends, and besides, he’s a solder. There’s always the chance he’ll die tomorrow, that’s what makes life so sweet. 

 

“That and the money,” Porthos says, holding out his hands as if weighing it all up. He dips his left hand. “My mother’s gonna be spitting mad when she finds out I’m going back to soldiering. So’s Ninon.”

 

“I like Marie Cessette,” Athos says, confiscating the bottle from Aramis. “Did you know she’s going to open a business with my friend, Madam Bonacieux?”

 

“Yes, she mentioned,” Porthos says. 

 

“Madam Bonacieux is the queen’s woman,” Athos murmurs, not looking at them. Aramis watches him, enjoying his quirked eyebrow, as if he’s waiting for the penny to drop. Porthos suddenly scrambles about in his seat and clutches Athos’s arm. 

 

“ _ My Mother _ is gonna be a  _ spy  _ for the  _ queen _ ?!” Porthos whispers. “My Mama?”

 

“I didn’t say so,” Athos says, cooly. Aramis smiles. 

 

“Holy shit,” Porthos whispers. 

 

“That’s blasphemy,” Athos says. Aramis leans into Porthos and laughs, tugging him out of the way so he can get a kiss to Athos’s cheek, squashing them together, pushing into both of their space. “You’ll spill the wine.”

 

“Screw the cardinal, screw Milady, here’s to death,” Aramis says, snatching the bottle and upending it. 

 

“I don’t like that,” Porthos says, shoving Aramis and taking the wine in his turn. “Here’s to continued good luck, and more money.”

 

“I don’t care about money, or death,” Athos says, getting the bottle back. 

 

They wait, but Athos has no toast to add. He just drinks steadily until the wine is gone, then tosses the bottle over his shoulder. 

  
  
  
  
  


_ ~ fin~ _

  
  
  
  


_ …. _

  
  
  
  


_ Almost _

  
  
  


_ _

_ Marie Cessette watches her son. He’s kneeling to the king, which she doesn’t much like, and there’s red against his skin, his own blood and someone else’s. He’s being rewarded for a fight she knows nothing of, some work in protection of the queen. She hadn’t been pleased when he told her he was signing up to Dessesart’s company again and she’d been even less pleased when he’d come to her and told her his duties would take him away from Paris for months at a time. The night before he left, though, he appeared in the doorway of the premises she and Constance bought, Marie Cessette’s savings and Constance’s money squirrelled away from her miser of a husband, along with a contribution from Porthos getting them started. She and Constance had been sharing some wine in the bare rooms, sat on the floor, the fabrics around them that they have left over from old orders, or that they’ve bought in for new orders. Constance had gotten up and left, promising it wasn’t an imposition, and Porthos had sat and told her, softly, of all he’s been doing these last few years. Now she knows that this is better for him. More honest. Easier for him to bear. She’d heard his old shame, that night, and hated it, and hated him, and hated Treville.  _

 

_ Now he’s there before the king and there’s nothing of that in his bearing. There’s only pride as he’s commissioned to the king’s own musketeers, as he gets to his feet and Athos and Aramis strap a pauldron to his shoulder that bears the fleur de lys, the king’s own symbol. There’s so much pride as he stands before Treville, waiting, and Treville claps him on the shoulder. They come over to meet her, three abreast, and she applauds for Porthos. She’s stood far away, down the street, beyond the guards. They come on through, though, Porthos pushing the crowd away a little and hugging her. He’s trembling and he smells like sweat and blood and adrenaline, but he’s beaming at her and he looks happier than she’s ever seen him.  _

 

_ “I’ve been doing lots of cooking,” is the first thing he says to her after two months. She shakes her head at him and he gives her a sheepish look, like he knows he’s done something but can’t work out what.  _

 

_ “How is it you still seem four years old, to me?” she says. “My child. No matter how big you grow you’re still as you’ve always been.” _

 

_ “Yeah,” Porthos agrees, pleased with it as if she’s complimented him. She looks to his left and sees Aramis laughing silently, trying to hide it but failing miserably. She looks to his right and sees Athos, stoic and flat-eyed, but his lips are twitching and his hand’s resting on Porthos’s pauldron, and his eyes are proud.  _

 

_ “Alright,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Go for a soldier, work for Treville. It makes you happy.” _

 

_ “It does,” Porthos says, agreeing again, he laughs and hugs her again, flinging himself into her arms as if he barely knows he’s nearly twice as tall as her now and so broad her arms barely wrap around his shoulders. “I’ll be in Paris more, at the garrison. That’s near your shop.” _

 

_ Whenever he talks about her shop there’s an inflection to it. Marie Cessette tells him all the time she has no idea what that’s about, but he also sounds proud, and a little wary, a little tentative. She knows why. She’s been waiting to see how it will feel, but now she gives him what he wants.  _

 

_ “I am happy too,” she says, pulling away from his tangled embrace. “I have all the independence I desire. And my wayward son,” she pauses to hit his arm, ignores his protest, “is supposedly no longer so wayward. Though I have my doubts about the respectability of these musketeers of yours.” _

 

_ “I assure you, madame,” Aramis starts, but she shushes him. She knows he and Athos are respectable, she’s made sure of it. She is, after all, giving her son into their care. Aramis bows his head, eyes crinkling up in amusement.  _

 

_ “We are degenerates,” Athos says, calmly. “And we are wanted at the garrison, Aramis and I are supposed to be on duty.” _

 

_ “You are?” Porthos asks. “Treville didn’t seem to mind.” _

 

_ As if hearing his name, the captain bellows for Athos, Aramis and Porthos. They exchange looks and scuttle away, Porthos rushing back to hug her again and kiss her cheeks and forehead before hurrying after his fellows. Away from their captain. She straightens her clothes and meets captain Treville.  _

 

_ “Sargeant,” she says.  _

 

_ “Oh you are your son’s mother,” he mutters. Then blinks and straightens up, eyes wide, bowing. “Have you seen my men?” _

 

_ “No, sir,” she says. She has a good poker face, she knows. It was she, afterall, who taught her son his card tricks.  _

 

_ “Marie Cessette,” he says.  _

 

_ “Sargeant Treville,” she says.  _

 

_ “Is this…” he gestures helplessly.  _

 

_ “If he gets hurt, I will know who to blame,” she says, turning away and sweeping down the street, leaving him to mull that over.  _

 

_ She returns to the shop and tells Constance everything that happened this afternoon, enjoying her laughter as they stitch. Constance has a note from the queen, nothing pressing but enough to earn them some money if they solve it, enough for a little excitement. Marie Cessette reads the curling script, fingering over the words, feeling them out while she makes them fit the message Constance tells her. She’s getting better at reading, but the queen’s script is so full of curls and flicks. Even Constance struggles with it, sometimes.  _

 

_ “I know where to start,” Marie Cessette says.  _

  
  
  


_ ~fin~ _


End file.
